Bloodlines
by maddoggirl
Summary: Historical AU, set in the Civil War. Even on opposite sides of a war, Fate has a way of bringing them together...
1. Preludes

A/N: Thanks to maineac on LJ for being such a great beta, and to the US Civil War comm for their helpful historical advice.

**Manassas, Virginia – July 19th, 1861 **

A weary knot of men stripped to their red undershirts milled around a white, rough cloth tent, about seven feet high and ten feet square. Muttered curses escaped their dry mouths as they hammered in the final pegs. Two men climbed down from a nearby wagon, carrying between them a sturdy table bearing dark stains of blood, and took it into the tent's interior. Three men watched them work; a Major in full dress attire, a surgeon in an unbuttoned uniform blue frock coat and a young Negro male in a patched-together assortment of military garments.

"Well, Captain House," the Major said, "it looks like your fellows are holding up well."

The surgeon did not respond to this comment. He ran his hand slowly over thick stubble and frowned at the workers.

"Gustafson, don't put that case down there. Someone will run into it and smash the vials. Put it inside," he instructed. A sweating Private nodded, and dragged the indicated leather trunk inside the tent's flaps. The Negro looked across at the surgeon sharply, but received no look in response.

"And when the battle does arrive, do you suppose you are prepared for casualties?" the Major continued.

"I don't know yet," the surgeon replied tonelessly. He shifted around a little, in the direction of the large wagon of supplies being unloaded. But the Negro could tell that he was really looking ahead at the hills, beyond the dark woodland, where the enemy were. Yesterday, a scouting party had identified the enemy camp as being some way beyond the hill, and even now the high-ranking officers were clustered in a tent, the first to be erected upon the regiment's arrival, planning the battle ahead. Word amongst the men was that a Union victory was so certain that local townspeople were going to come down to watch the fray. What fools, what damned, damned fools, House thought.

"Foreman," the surgeon said slowly, "the stretchers aren't on the wagon. Go and ask Captain Walsh where they've been put. Then have them brought up here."

"And how many exactly am I supposed to carry? Or shall I just order a few men to help? They love being told what to do by orderlies," Foreman replied with grim humour. The surgeon turned back around to face him.

"Use your head," he said, smirking. Foreman shrugged, and headed past the wagon, into the main camp.

They had arrived earlier today at this strange, lonely, baking spot of Virginia. They had a few days, he had heard, before any action was likely to unfold, so a camp was being hastily constructed. The horses of the 5th US Cavalry Regiment stood in random order, some tied to posts or branches of wild trees, others wandering peacefully amongst the labouring soldiers heading to and from the dusty track, where a line of twenty unhitched wagons were stood waiting to be unloaded.

Tents were still being erected, patches hacked clear from the overgrown grass and bushes. Many of the soldiers eschewed tents altogether, preferring to sleep on the bare ground covered only by a blanket. Captain House was not one of them. He jabbed a bony forefinger at one of the resting Privates.

"Jorgensen. Pitch a tent for me while I entertain the Major."

Jorgensen snorted like a horse as he stood up and wiped the grime from his damp forehead with a sleeve. He was a tall, burly Norwegian with a bushy brown beard.

"A'right, Doc. I go do this thing for you."

Jorgensen's broad back disappeared into the blazing sun. The surgeon removed a pocket watch from his coat pocket, consulted it, then dropped it back in. Foreman's lithe figure now appeared from a tent within the camp, jogging gently towards them. The Major looked thoughtfully at him. "That Negro fellow…"

"Foreman," the surgeon interjected gruffly.

"Yes, just as you say, Captain House. I believe I once met his father in Boston. William Foreman, the abolitionist speaker?"

"That's the one." House said shortly, "Foreman! I hope you're hiding those stretchers under that shirt."

Foreman slowed to a walk. "Captain Walsh will send a party of men with them as soon as they can be spared. Presently, they're all engaged erecting tents, unloading other supplies, sir."

The surgeon nodded. He lifted his blue kepi from his head, revealing hair plastered flat with sweat. It had been a long journey, two days of riding through Virginia in the midsummer heat. Seven men had simply fallen from their horses from dehydration or heat exhaustion, and one had died. House grabbed his canteen from inside his coat and poured a little water onto the top of his head. "About time to go and get something to eat," he muttered to Foreman.

"I suppose," the Major continued, seemingly oblivious to his companion's attempts to cease conversation, "that you have stretcher-bearers?"

"Yeah, we do. The cooks."

"Ah, yes, of course. Personally, I am not entirely sure that that is wise."

"Why not? It only means that you can't get a sandwich while there's a battle on," the surgeon replied. The Major raised his eyebrows at this rudeness, and Foreman shook his head.

"Well surgeon, good luck. I'm sure it'll all go as planned," the Major said stiffly, saluting with sharp precision. House lazily raised a hand in reply, not even looking at the officer. His eyes were fixed on the construction of the medical tent.

The tent could hold four men. House and Foreman shared with another surgeon, Mussler, and his orderly, French. There was barely enough room for all of them to lie down at the same time, and Foreman often awoke sensing someone missing from the cramped space. More often than not, House would be sitting in the dewy grass outside the tent, staring into the distance, the crackling of the camp fire in air. The flames would flicker over his face, and Foreman would wonder what he was thinking about so deeply. Today, he was not inclined to make fanciful observations regarding his boss.

"That was rude," he said, as they entered their newly-pitched tent and threw themselves and their kit onto the bare ground. It had been baked hard by the sun, and both men hissed as they sat down hard.

"That idiot never fought a battle in his life. I should creep round him like he's a President just because he wears more buttons than I do?" House demanded, beginning to unstrap his bedroll and knapsack from his shoulders. He set them down, and detached his sword from his belt, laying it down parallel to his leg.

Foreman frowned quizzically. "You say you want a transfer to the Calvary, yet you are intentionally impolite to one of the men who could fix it for you?"

House pushed his kit aside, lay out on his back and looked disapprovingly at the tear in the cloth over his head. "I won't get a transfer. They need surgeons too badly."

Foreman's face filled with indignant surprise. "You tell everyone you're gonna be out of here soon, tell me at every opportunity that I'll be useless when you're gone - and now you say it'll never happen?"

House didn't bother replying. He closed his eyes and pretended to sleep until he could hear Foreman unpacking his things for him and setting them out. He wanted to be a cavalryman. Being a surgeon to a cavalry regiment wasn't enough; he wanted to ride a horse at full gallop. Before the war, he had owned two horses, but now he only rode when the regiment was marching, an officers' privilege. He was only an assistant surgeon; his disrespectful attitude holding back any chance of promotion, and as such under the command of three full surgeons.

Foreman sat cross-legged on the bare ground and surveyed his boss. "I'm going out," he said, crawling to the exit. Halfway through the doorflaps, he stopped and twisted his head around. "And you don't have to pretend to be asleep," he said, gesturing to House's newly arranged kit, "I've got to do this for you anyway."

Three days later, the battle erupted like an ugly volcano, spewing up smoke and bodies in place of lava. The Union troops drove their foe back at first, but when they reached the crest of the hill over which they had forced the Confederates, they found themselves in the open. They got the full brunt of a regrouped enemy attack, and Union soldiers dropped in droves. The sun shone on their gun metal, creating a blazing reflection. Down at the bottom of the hill, the Confederates knew they were winning when more and more dull holes appeared in the gleaming strip of light lining the grassy crest.

The medical tent was chaos now, blood, and screams merging with the cannon roar from beyond the hill. Like Dante's Inferno, Captain House thought distractedly. The three surgeons, the four assistant surgeons and two orderlies were crammed in the stifling tent. All were stripped to the waist, their wet bare flesh spattered liberally with blood. Each operation was finished only for another to begin immediately. Men were lifted onto and off of the wooden table. After the first few casualties, the wounded had to be held to the tabletop to top them sliding off the bloody surface.

House had never sweated so much in his life, and a look at his colleagues showed they were in similar states. In one hand, he held a pair of iron forceps for extraction, and in the other a pad of shredded rags, already weighted with blood. The young corporal lying on the table had been bayoneted in the stomach, and was bleeding to death fast. House pressed the rags down on his abdomen frantically, knowing he couldn't do this alone. Two surgeons were working on casualties of their own. The third, Surgeon Mussler, was trying to explain to a disoriented middle-aged sergeant that his leg would have to come off. House could see the jagged bone sticking out under his trouser cloth, just below the knee.

"Mussler, I need your help! Foreman, give that patient some ether!"

"No!" screamed the sergeant, sitting up on Mussler's table and kicking hysterically, "Get away from me, you damned butchers!"

"I haven't got time to argue!" Mussler shouted, over the blast of a particularly bone-shaking cannon volley, "Yes or no?"

"I…I…" the sergeant's entire jaw shook in fear, saliva running from his mouth onto his bloody jacket. House stormed towards him, and smacked his with the back of his hand, hard. The sergeant yelped, and House brought the hand back, smacking him on the other cheek with a dizzying crack.

"This man is bleeding to death because of you, you damned coward! Take the ether!" he barked. Whimpering, the sergeant limply allowed himself to be dosed by Foreman, only sobbing softly. Mussler assisted House, and together they were able to staunch the bloodflow and dig out the metal shard from the corporal's stomach. Foreman worked fast behind them, fat beads of sweat running down his temples and onto his shoulders as he worked the bonesaw frenetically, his arm shooting back and forth with the grinding of the knife on human bone.

A stretcher-bearer stuck his head inside the tent. "Another one out here. Bullet wound, shoulder. We've got some more supplies, we're leaving them with him out here."

Their medical tent was at the edge of the camp, but closer to the battlefield was a smaller post, where soldiers could receive some basic treatment, or, if severely wounded, made stable enough for transport back to the main surgery post. Mussler nodded at the stretcher-bearer, who hurried away.

"Foreman, French – go and bring that soldier in. Captain House, could you run some bandages up to the other post?"

House bent down outside the tent and picked as many rolls of bandage as he could carry. As he walked briskly towards the distant white tent, he felt the cool air on his face and bare chest and breathed in heavily. The roar of cannons was part of the background now, a constant rolling in his ears. He could feel other men's blood running in sweat-diluted rivulets down his back. The smell of gunsmoke pricked at his nostrils, and plumes of it rose blue and grey from the behind the hill. What the scene over there looked like he could barely imagine, but from what the wounded men had gasped as they lay on the table, things were going badly.

A flash illuminated the camp, followed by a tremendous bang which shook him on his feet, and made him realise that the artillery was getting closer. House suddenly looked at the hillside and frowned, blinked his smoke-smarting eyes and checked again. Men in blue were beginning to surmount the hill's crest and run down it, fleeing back towards camp. House dumped the pile of bandages as he reached the post, which was really a large piece of calico stretched over four poles. Under the canopy, newly arrived casualties thrashed and bawled, and some orderlies administered ether and stopped bleeding as fast as they knew how. Immediately, one of them dived for the new bandages and scooped them up. But House didn't even notice this; he was looking at the retreating men. Some of them were close now, pelting as fast as weary or wounded legs would carry them. There were only a few at the moment, but this, House knew, was the turning of the tide.

He turned back towards camp and began pacing towards the surgeon's tent, when a hand clutched at his arm. A baby-faced soldier in an outsized uniform stared up into the surgeon's haggard, bloody face.

"Doctor? Please, please…my brother's down there," he gestured wildly over his shoulder towards the hill, "He's wounded, badly."

"He'll have to wait," House said impatiently, shaking the youngster's hand from his arm. "The stretcher-bearers will get to him eventually."

"He can't wait! He's dying, Doc! Please, I…" his voice cracked hysterically, "Please just come and see him. He's yelling, Doc, like hell – like nothing I ever heard. Please. Our mother already lost two sons and her brother!"

The surgeon looked the young man in the face for what seemed like whole minutes, before a fresh barrage of artillery jolted them both, physically and mentally.

"It's getting closer," the surgeon muttered. "All right, let's go."

Almost crying with gratitude, the young soldier began running back towards the hill with House following. More men were retreating, in varying states of disarray, uniforms tattered. Discarded rifles lay all over the hillside, along with any other implement the retreating men thought might slow their flight. As they reached the brow of the hill, House could feel nausea creeping up on him. The artillery was deafening now, and the flashes more frequent. The reached the top.

Down below, the masses of grey and tan uniforms, and a long row of artillery, grim and black. All this could barely be seen through the smoke. Between the Confederate cannon and the Union's crumbling lines, small pitched battles entangled soldiers from both sides. And the churned, exploded ground between the two sides was littered with bodies. More and more soldiers passed them by as they descended the hillside, leaving their lieutenants screaming at their retreating backs.

The youngster led House down onto the battlefield. "You must really love your brother," House muttered to himself, unable to hear over the constant roar of explosions. Now they were in the midst of what remained of the battle, shells landing so close that the mud thrown up by them rained down over their heads. The smoke was so thick that House could hardly see his guide, and the explosions so severe that he could barely stay on his feet. Dying men of both sides lay under their feet, their innards spread over the ground, making it sickeningly slippery. Their pale hands grabbed weakly at House's trouser leg, their pleading words drowned out by the thundering artillery.

House and the boy were lost in the swirling grey which attacked their eyes and filled their heads with poisonous smoke. House coughed, and stumbled over two men who lay dead on top of each other, a piece of shrapnel having speared them both together. A crackling rally of gunfire rang out, and House guessed that the officers were trying to organise one last stand with their remaining men.

Finally, the young man stopped and dropped to his knees by the side of a limp body. House glanced down at him, and shouted, "He's dying. Nothing to do." He wheeled round, trying to hide the fact that his legs shook violently beneath him, and began to walk away. The kid chased after.

"How can you say that?" he yelled over the latest round of pounding blasts, "You haven't even looked at him!"

House spun around and seized the young man by the collar. "You idiot! Have you any idea how many men we might lose because you dragged me down here? If it wasn't for…"

He was cut off by a bang so loud that it seemed to go through him and blow through his eyes, leaving him in blackness. The roar of it filled his ears and a white-hot agony pushed a primal yell from his mouth. He felt himself hit the ground, where he drifted in and out of consciousness in the mud for several minutes before anything semi-permanent came to him in the way of awareness.

He was screaming as hard as he could, the sound warped in his ringing ears; an immense pain flowed through every nerve, and he wasn't sure why for a moment, until his hands automatically clutched at his thigh. The screams seemed to be throttled in his throat as he realised in abject terror that there was nothing below his hands. He looked down. A gaping, hollowed mess of throbbing muscle and congealing blood where his right thigh was supposed to be. Next to his leg lay a shiny piece of shrapnel, covered in skin and bloody tissue. He arched back his head and screeched at the sky until the pain overwhelmed him and he lay still. Unconsciousness was like a cool blanket of relief.

**Courtland, Alabama - July 21st, 1861**

In a field just out of town, nearly two hundred young men queued in three disordered lines. The meadow's usual occupants, forty-eight cows, had been moved out and three canopies put up at one end of the field. Under each canopy sat a Confederate Sergeant, each with a line of young men waiting in front of his table.

The sun burned down from an unclouded sky, and the young volunteers lounged in the long grass. Some played cards or craftily swigged from hip flasks, while others just lay on their backs with their hats pulled over their faces and waited for the line to progress forward.

Most of them wore shabby clothing, cheap suits or patched britches. None of them went hatless, however, a fact they all appreciated as the sun rose higher. One volunteer, a teenager with a thin doubtful beard, sighed heavily. "I feel like an ant unner a magnifyin' glass," he mumbled.

"You kin always get on home, Wade. They won't take you anyways. You look younger than my baby brother."

"You take that back, Giles Franklin," Wade snarled at the other youth, who tossed dice lazily with a companion. Giles shrugged, and fell back into the grass, sneezing as the long blades tickled his face.

In another line, four youths compared biceps, squinting in the brightness. One of the soldiers present shook his head and cursed them loudly, to their great surprise.

Sergeant Green relaxed under his canopy, its shelter deflecting most of the sun's rays away from him. He had processed so many recruits this morning that he barely bothered looking up anymore, unless he knew the volunteer personally. And being a native of the town, he often did. The cool dark shade fell over his papers as another recruit shuffled forward. He took the lad's details and passed him on to one of the attendant corporals. The Sergeant dipped his pen in the inkwell which wobbled perilously due to the uneven ground on which the table stood, and prepared a fresh form.

"Name?" he said mechanically, as the shadow of one figure passed and was quickly replaced by another.

"James Wilson."

Sergeant Green cranked his neck up sharply. "James Wilson!" he repeated, looking up to see a clear-eyed man of near thirty with a thin brown moustache standing in front of him. He wore a neat brown suit, better quality than most of the other recruits, and his hair was carefully parted under a straw boater. The Sergeant got to his feet and stuck out a hand.

"James Wilson! Well, I'll be! What took you so long? I had your brothers sign up two weeks ago!"

Wilson lifted the boater and rubbed the back of his head. "I came as soon as I could, sir. I've been in Montgomery, studying medicine. My father wrote me to say that Johnny and Michael had joined up, and I came myself as soon as I could get away," he explained, a little awkward.

"Well, that's all fine. We'll be right pleased to have you. You've got a fine character, and brains too it seems. I never knew you was away at college."

Wilson smiled, and shrugged off his woollen jacket. Sergeant Green repeated "James Wilson," over again, and resumed his seat.

Wilson left the table five minutes later, a soldier in the army of the Confederate States of America, and slowly made his way across the field as directed. Sergeant Green remained in his seat, the next shadow crossing him. He dipped his pen in the unsteady inkwell and prepared a fresh form.

"Name?"

**This is the first chapter. Thanks for any comments you might like to make.**


	2. Nine Months Later

**A/N: **Thanks again to **maineac, **my extremely efficient beta, with whom the real genius lies, and also to all the lovely reviewers for their encouragement. Two points I'd like to make here: firstly, this was supposed to be a half-House POV, half-Wilson POV like the first chapter, but the House part overran and so I ditched Wilson's. Maybe later on I'll give Wilson a whole chapter, just to be fair. Secondly, in my original outline, they were supposed to meet in this chapter. But then I realised that my original outline sucked, so out it went. But, hand on heart, they'll be together next chapter :D

**Pittsburg Landing, Tennessee – April 6th, 1862**

A heatless sun hovered above the thin band of woods that hedged two sides of the Union camp, beginning to brighten the pale grey sky. A cold chill whirled between the tents, tugging them gently from side to side. Soldiers shuffled back and forth to the woodland with short axes, bringing back armfuls of fuel and adding it to a growing pile next to a large fire being kindled. Several smaller fires had been established, and the smell of bacon frying over them drifted tantalisingly over the camp and roused more soldiers from their beds and out into the chill, damp air.

But frying bacon could not tempt Captain House out of his tent, where he lay wrapped in a dull grey blanket, moaning softly as drafts of cold air penetrated the thick wool and hit his bad leg. He shifted, trying to move his leg so that the other one would shelter it and bit his lip as he tried. The cold mornings always caused him great discomfort, and he had not yet learned to move in the way that would cause the least pain. Nine months ago, almost to the day, he had been an able-bodied soldier. Now he was simply a cripple, learning better every day how restricted his life would henceforth be.

It was hard going - he had known it would be hard going since he regained consciousness on an army operating table and stayed awake long enough to forbid the amputation the surgeons had wanted. They had reluctantly agreed, and had done the best they could, but it was still a mess. Every time he touched the pit of scars, House was reminded of how much better the job would have been done under his charge.He considered this now, as he lay dozing on his groundsheet.

"Foreman," he muttered. There was no response. House's eyes flickered open and came to rest on the cast aside blanket next to him, lately occupied by his orderly. He raised his head and listened as Foreman's voice came to him through the tent.

"Good morning, Private Jakes."

House turned his head and saw Foreman's silhouette. The Negro orderly was squatting outside the front of the tent, shining his battered boots. Another voice came towards the tent, accompanied by approaching footsteps.

"How do, boy?" said Private Jakes, and House snorted softly at the condescension in his voice. Foreman replied sombrely.

"Very fine, thank you. What's your trouble, Private?"

Before House could listen to Jakes' reply, the Private coughed heavily and heaved an almighty sniff.

"I've been to the medical tent, but there's no-one there. Is the Doc around anywhere?" he said in a voice gummy with mucus.

"In there," Foreman said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. Inside the tent, House lowered his head back onto the folded jacket which served as his pillow and closed his eyes, still listening to the conversation.

"Still? Ain't he gonna be on sick call this morning?" asked Jakes.

"Captain House," Foreman said, with great significance, "is not a well man."

"I'll say!" agreed Jakes, and both men laughed. House's eyes opened again.

"Do you feel like a transfer to one of those Negro infantry units? How does that song go, Foreman?" he called, then began to sing lustily, "Though Sambo's black as the ace of spades, His fingers a trigger can pull, And his eye runs straight on the barrel sight, From under his thatch of wool."

Foreman's face, he imagined, was currently a tangled picture of anger and embarrassment. Satisfied, House buried his face into his jacket again.

"Have you a handkerchief?" Jakes asked Foreman thickly.

"Here."

"Thankee."

House slipped an arm inside the blanket and ground the heel of his hand into his thigh. The pain shot out from the knots and strains, and he pushed his face flat against the blanket and bit the cloth to keep from shouting out. When the worst had passed, he called out again.

"Where are you from, Jakes?"

"Sir? Finch Landing, Illinois, sir."

"Small place?"

"Yes, sir. About fifty people I should think, sir."

House smiled mirthlessly.

"You have the measles, Jakes. By tomorrow, you'll have the rash. That's what happens with you backwater boys – no exposure. Stay away from anyone else until it's gone, or you could knock over the whole regiment. There's nothing I can do, so go away," he called, "It should last about three d…" the rest of the word was swallowed by a muffled cry of pain from the tent. Foreman raised an eyebrow, and called back with grudging concern.

"You all right?"

"Yes," came the reply, tight and strained. Foreman over his shoulder sceptically, and then back at Jakes.

"There's nothing to do, Private. Sorry."

He waited stoically until Jakes was out of earshot before he opened his mouth to speak. But before he could get a word out, House spoke first.

"Foreman," he said softly, but urgently.

Foreman turned on his haunches, and lifted a tentflap. House had his back to him, curled up as tight as his leg would allow, his shoulders shaking.

"The anodyne," he hissed, and Foreman could tell that he was crying.

"All right," he said, pretending not to notice.

House ground his teeth together and wiped furiously at his eyes, trying to divert his mind from the twisting agony of his leg. Behind him, he could hear Foreman clinking the laudanum bottle against the whiskey bottle as he poured a little of both into a tin cup. The orderly was so used to this routine that he could measure a half-ounce of laudanum and a shot of whiskey automatically.

"I'll leave it here."

House coughed throatily. "Bring me some coffee and a copy of Harper's Weekly,"

Foreman crawled softly out of the tent, muttering something scathing.

His whole body shuddering, House rolled over and extended a shaking arm for the tin cup. Barely sitting upright, he lifted the beaker and drained it dry in one throat-withering gulp.

Three minutes later, he was able to stand. It was as he did so, his hand clutching the tentcloth over his head as he pulled himself upright, that Foreman's head came through the tentflaps, his face damp and grave.

"Where's my coffee?" House muttered, bending down to unfold his jacket and sling it over his shoulders.

"The rebs are attacking," Foreman said, sounding surprised at House's ignorance of this fact. When House listened, the gunshots in the distance clear, he realized how distracted he had been. He nodded brusquely.

"All right. Run down to Fredericks and see what he wants to do. When he's told you, tell him we're setting up…" he paused, gauging the direction and distance of the attacking fire, "…between the creek and the woods. Get my things from the med tent on your way back."

Foreman nodded, and turned to hurry out. "And polish up that hacksaw – you'll need it!" House called after him.

He took a heavy, uneven step forward and picked up his cane, which was leaning against the front wall of the tent. He then levered his feet into the tall boots by the doorway and strapped the sword which lay by them onto his left hip. His hands slowly buttoned his jacket, while his attention remained on the sounds around him.

The drummers had begun their frenzied rallying call, and hasty boots ran on all sides, weapons clanking and clicking into readiness. House stepped out into the cool, smoky air and surveyed the scene.

Panic had seized the camp by the neck. Officers hurriedly tried to organize men into their companies, while the cooking fires were hastily stamped out with loud sizzling and shootings of smoke. Horses whinnied in alarm at the sudden commotion, bucking and jerking away from the officers attempting to mount them.

Foreman was coming through the white mists, elbowing aside the thick mass of troops in his way. He had House's leather satchel hanging heavily at his right side, and his own smaller pack at his left. House hailed him with a jerk of the head, and abruptly began walking as fast as he was able in the direction his orderly had just come from. He thought little of using his cane to drive away those unfortunates crossing his path, as Foreman jogged to reach him, his heavy load swinging awkwardly.

"House! Wait, damn it!"

"You can carry my things," House shouted over his shoulder, with no reduction in pace, "I'm crippled."

The two reached the medical tent, where they encountered Surgeon Dawkins directing a few orderlies and an assistant surgeon in the establishment of the medical tent.

"Captain House!" Dawkins shouted over the general din, "I'm arranging things here. You can take Foreman, Drake and Lund and establish a field post where you suggested."

House looked Drake and Lund up and down as they crouched near Dawkins, unpacking a large case of dressings. Drake was dark and burly, Lund a tall young Swede with prolific sideburns.

"They'll do, I guess. Get everything you can carry, and follow me. Foreman…" he held out his hand and Foreman slipped off the larger of the packs from his shoulder and handed it over. House slung it clumsily across his left shoulder and tried to get used to the weight. Normal practice was to have the sword on the left side and the pack on the right, but he found this unbearable.

The four men headed away from the camp, closer to the gunfire. As they came out of the thin strip of woodland, the enemy were visible on the horizon, and the medics were often overtaken by rushing groups of soldiers. At a patch near a muddy brook, where three large rocks stood, House halted.

"There," he said, and pointed to the area behind the rocks. The guns were coming closer all the time as the two armies drew nearer to each other. The orderlies set about sorting their scanty supplies under the captain's stern eyes.

The casualties began to arrive almost at once. The ambulances had not yet been organized, so any wounded men were forced to drag themselves back to the field post or face a wait of several hours on the battlefield. Stretched out behind the rocks were ever-increasing numbers of wounded, with the medics tending to them as fast as they were able. Ahead of them, beyond the brook, many small pitched skirmishes were taking place. From the start, House could see that they were losing. They had been caught off guard and were now paying the price.

The new recruits panicked, as House knew they would. A blur of blue would occasionally streak past him as he hunched over a casualty, heading for the woods and safety.

A new rebel attack brought a multitude of casualties, all crying and shouting for treatment. One soldier, propped by a comrade on either side, held his torn stomach together with bloodied hands and howled desperately.

"We can't take all these!" Foreman shouted to his superior, as Drake and Lund tried to find a vacant patch of grass for the new arrivals.

"You're right," House agreed, fastening a dressing to a corporal's bleeding leg. He got to his feet and threaded his way heavily through the sprawled hordes, towards a fleeing recruit.

The soldier, a young Irishman whom he knew to be called O'Caigne, had lost or discarded his hat, pack and rifle. He was now running, half-blinded with tears, for the woods which stood between battlefield and camp. House moved as quickly as he could to intercept him. O'Caigne glanced fleetingly as the surgeon appeared ahead of him, but ducked his head down again and kept running until a cane was thrust between his ankles, sending him tumbling to the ground. He rolled onto his back, spluttering and choking on a mouthful of dust.

"You," House jabbed his cane at the young deserter, "come with me. You're going to be a medic for the day."

"No…no," muttered O'Caigne, trying to sit up, "I've gotta…gotta get back to the camp, away from…"

House's hand moved swiftly to the sword at his side, and he drew it out forcefully. Raising his arm slightly, he let the blade point at the soldier's neck.

"Get up and follow me, or I will kill you."

O'Caigne knew from the expression on the captain's face that this was no joke or empty bluff. He shakily got to his feet and tottered after the surgeon.

When they got back to the field post, House returned his sword to its scabbard and put into O'Caigne's arms a heap of dressings and tourniquets.

"Here's what you do. That side…" the surgeon gestured to the left of the post, "is for the mortally wounded. Nothing for you there. The centre – that's for serious wounds. Nothing there either. The right side is all yours. Minor injuries. Patch 'em up, send 'em back."

And then he was gone, leaving his reluctant assistant to move gloomily to the area instructed and begin his new career.

The weary battle against a tide of injuries went on all day. By early afternoon, the ambulance had been established. After primary treatment, serious cases could be taken back to the camp, where Surgeon Dawkins and his assistants could see to them. For House and his orderlies were left minor wounds and those too close to death to be worth treatment. By one o'clock, one half of his post was flesh wounds and sprains, and the other half disfigured bodies and the constant sound of death rattles. On their knees, the medics moved from patient to patient, armed only with bandages and morphine.

They treated all, friend or foe. Former enemies sat together on the grass, chatting morosely and listening to the gunfire nearby.

At seven o'clock, as the sky began to grow dusky, news reached the field post that reinforcements had arrived. This news brought cheer to the wounded who were able to comprehend.

"That's fine news, ain't it, sir?" said an eighteen year-old farmer-turned-fighter, as House tried to remove a shard of shrapnel from his shoulder.

"Sit still," House muttered, frowning in concentration. The forceps he held entered the wound and clasped the gleaming metal within. He yanked it out, provoking a shriek from his patient. Unsympathetically, House dropped the forceps and bound up the gash tightly. As his hands tied the final knot, he looked intently over his patient's shoulder, then indicated the battlefield with a nod.

"The rebs. Getting together for a last push before bedtime."

The patient squirmed, twisted his head to look, and then gulped.

"Looks like it."

The groups of enemy soldiers had moved back, and were now forming a solid line. The gunfire had almost ceased, the only shots were from Union men firing after their foe.

"Wounded men!" House hailed, standing up straight, and looking over the outstretched troops, "You are probably about to be overrun by our hated foe. Lie still and hope that when you open your eyes, it'll all be over."

Foreman appeared at his right elbow, forehead wrinkled as he squinted ahead.

"There's so many of them," he said slowly, "But they won't go for us. There's an understanding that we're out of bounds."

"There was an understanding that states didn't go to war against each other. Everything is variable, Foreman. Stay low and hope you're right."

The mass of grey suddenly lurched into a charge, bugles shrieking and the famous Rebel yell filling the air. Prayers came through the battle's din, muttered fervently by the injured lying prone and helpless. House stayed standing, crouched a little, his fingers gripping his cane tightly and his mouth set firm.

The Union line of defense crumbled as he knew it had to, its soldiers fleeing in droves. The Confederates hurtled forward, frenzied cries and deafening rallies of gunshots going before them. Bodies tumbled down all around the field post, screams and bloody thuds ringing out with each round of gunfire.

The grey-clad enemy swarmed down the banks of the creeks, slipping in the mud and occasionally tumbling into the water. They waded across, rifles held high, and clambered up the other side.

Foreman saw their heads begin to appear, and began to mutter a prayer without realizing it, lying flat on the ground. He looked up at House, who still stood upright, apparently transfixed. He opened his mouth to shout a warning, but was silenced by a clatter of rifle shots which filled the air around them with white smoke. Foreman began to choke, and raised himself onto his knees, trying to see through the impenetrable mists. More gunshots, confused screams, and footsteps all around him – so close that he felt running bodies brush on either side. The enemy were trampling through the post, crushing the wounded of both sides under their boots. A knee hit Foreman square in the jaw, knocking him onto his back and dazing him.

When he regained awareness, the mists were just beginning to clear The gunfire was now much reduced, and further away. Foreman lay on his back and listened to the soft groans becoming audiable from the ground all around him. Above the general cries, a voice came low and insistent.

"Foreman. Foreman…"

He knew the voice, and his eyes searched the thick white haze for its owner.

"Sir? Captain House?" he called, crawling slowly towards the direction he thought it came from. His hands moved carefully, dodging the bodies scattered thickly over the grass.

"Here…here…" House replied, guiding his orderly closer and closer toward him.

Foreman raised his head and saw House through the smoke, slumped against one of the rocks near the rear of the post, about ten feet away. Foreman scrambled to his feet, coughing, and sprinted the last few paces towards the stricken man.

House's eyes were closed, his face wracked with pain. His hands were pressed firmly to his stomach, a dark patch spreading across the front of his jacket. He opened his eyes and looked up at Foreman. An expression was on his face that Foreman had never seen before. Fear.

"I think…" House mumbled, looking down at his bloodied palms, "I've been stabbed with a bayonet. I've lost a lot of blood…two pints, maybe. I won't make it back unless you get someone right now."

"I will. I'll go and find someone. Just stay there," Foreman instructed.

By the end of the sentence, House was unconscious.


	3. A FarmPicture

**A/N**: Though my own dumb-assery I lost my beta's email address. When I make contact with her again, I shall try and persuade her to beta for me again. But I couldn't wait anymore to post this new chapter. Please, then, keep in mind that this has not been beta-ed and have mercy. Here's the boys together, as promised. Again, comments FTW. Enjoy.

**Pittsburg Landing, Tennessee – April 10th, 1862**

House was awake for a while before he felt the inclination to open his eyes. Ten minutes at least. It was interesting to see how much he could work out about his surroundings just from lying there.

The warmth, and the smell of sawdust and broth, told him immediately that he was inside a building. He moved his hands slowly at his sides and felt sheets. There was a firm, soft pressure behind his head. So used was he to sleeping in a tent that it took him several seconds to realise that it was a pillow, and he was lying in a bed.

And sounds. From the next room came occasional sounds of pots and pans clinking together and a pair of feet shuffling back and forth, often accompanied by a tuneless whistle. He was making the broth, House realised. But there was something else, something that could only be heard in the silent moments. Breathing – someone in the room was asleep, or pretending to be.

House opened his eyes. He was staring at a white plaster ceiling crossed by dark wooden beams. He turned his head slightly to look around. A few feet to his left was a half-raised window letting a cool breeze and bright midday sun flood into the room. Outside the window he could only see an expanse of grass, sloping eventually into a small hill. On his right was empty space for about five feet, and then a wall with a bare fireplace and a closed door set into it. The floor of the room was plain wood.

The breathing came again. House slowly propped himself up on his elbows, with a little gnawing pain in his abdomen reminding him why he was here. He craned his head up and peered across the small room.

There was a bed opposite his, about seven feet away, against the facing wall. House sized up its occupant with interest. A dark-haired man, maybe a decade younger, wrapped loosely in his sheets with his face turned upward. What had once obviously been a carefully cherished moustache was now part of a thick, dark layer of stubble covering his jaw. His cheeks had an unhealthy flush to them and his forehead was damp with sweat, House noted with professional interest. The folded grey clothes on the bedside chair told him that this man was an enemy soldier, and the tight bandage on his left wrist told him the man's injury.

Looking at the younger man's untidy stubble, it occurred to him to touch his own chin, and he felt almost a beard beneath his hand. He had been out three days at least, then. He lifted the sheets and saw that he was wearing only white long johns. His uniform had been washed and repaired, and was piled on the chair next to the bed. Leaning against the chair was his sword and his cane, and in front of them stood his boots. With an exerted sigh, House let his head fall back down. After a moment's consideration, he placed the pillow against the wall behind his head so that he could monitor his roommate and look out of the window. Next to his head was another window, closed, which looked out onto a small yard containing a water pump and an unoccupied henhouse.

His companion's slumber was restless. Although the man never seemed to wake, he tossed and turned almost constantly, coughing harshly as he did so. His limbs agitatedly stirred the sheets and he uttered low, distressed groans. House watched with relative detachment until the door at his right opened and a pink-faced sergeant with black hair and moustache strode in. He was a short, stocky man of about forty years, and was carrying a small tin basin. Water sloshed around inside the bowl.

"Oh," he said, looking at House, "You're awake. Splendid."

"Splendid," House repeated tonelessly.

The sergeant lifted the sleeper's uniform off the bedside chair and sat down on it. Placing the bowl on his knees, he wrung out the rag which lay in the water and began to dab it to the sleeper's brow. The young man shifted, then sighed peacefully and lay still. The sergeant wet the cloth again, and then looked at House.

"There's broth cooking on the stove. I'll bring you some when I've done here."

"All right. I assume that we won."

"Certainly did. Those reinforcements took the rebs by the throat, by thunder. Cleared 'em right off the field. It was a tight scratch, though."

House nodded.

"Who's he?" he asked, jerking his head at the recumbent soldier. The sergeant dabbed the man's forehead once more, then looked thoughtfully at him.

"Rebel prisoner. Got papers on him, name's Wilson. Broken wrist – probably tripped over his own feet retreating!" the sergeant chuckled. House did not join him. He looked around the room, then frowned.

"What are we doing here?"

"Well," the sergeant replied, getting to his feet, "this is a requisitioned little farmhouse about a mile back from the battlefield. There were other wounded men billeted around the village but now most of them are either back with the regiment, in a field hospital or dead."

"Yet we're not. Why?" House demanded, pulling himself a little more upright.

"The – huh – well…" the sergeant hesitated, broke off and moved to the window. He fussed over the latch and adjusted it a little, House's eyes burning into his back. After a few moments of this, the sergeant wheeled around to face House, leaning his back against the sill.

"The nub of it, Grig'ry…"

"Don't call me that, sergeant."

"I'm sorry, sir, I guess I forgot myself," the sergeant stammered, "But the nub is this: the regiment's advancing tomorrow at dawn. You won't be fit to go with them, and this Wilson feller ain't fit to move nowhere."

House's frown deepened. The sergeant crossed the floor and sat on the edge of his bed. His tone was soft and sympathetic as he spoke.

"Captain House…you've done a great deal for your country and I'm blamed if you ain't as warm a patriot as I ever met. But the thing is that you're not in a condition to be amongst fighters, and likely never will be again. You're nearly forty, and you've had nine kinds of hell knocked out of you."

He paused awkwardly. House didn't prompt him, but instead stared fixedly out the window, wilfully unresponsive. The sergeant sighed heavily, and finished his speech.

"You're being discharged, Captain. By order of the colonel."

"Fine," House replied quickly, "I was getting tired of it anyway."

"That's not it, I'm afraid. That feller, Wilson – we got to send him up to the prison at headquarters."

"Fort Douglas, Illinois."

"Yes. And you'll have to present yourself there to have your discharge papers confirmed. The regiment has no-one to spare, and…"

House's face showed a flash of realisation. "You want me to take him there? Impossible. Absurd."

"He won't hurt you. He'll have his hands shackled, and you'll be well armed."

House snorted disparagingly. "Fear really isn't the point of debate here. I don't care if he's trussed like a turkey, I won't do it."

"The army will pay for your mount and cover all your expenses."

"The rebs blow out your ears? I said no."

The sergeant's patience seemed to be thinning. He smiled with just a hint of malice.

"I'm afraid, Captain, that you really don't have a choice in the matter. You took an oath to this army and this army has given you an order."

The cold stare House pinned him with seemed to last for whole minutes.

"Get me some broth," House said eventually, his eyes still fixed and blazing. The sergeant seemed only too glad to obey, hurrying out of the room and leaving the captain alone with his thoughts. Unfortunately, he felt too tired to pursue them, and simply watched his roommate blankly. When the sergeant returned with a tin bowl of soup, House pointed towards the prisoner, who now slept peacefully.

"Give him a shave while he's like that. Trying to shave someone while they're tossing and turning is liable to get messy."

"Right you are, sir," the sergeant said heavily.

House ate his broth slowly, watching the sergeant leave the room and return with a steaming bowl of water and a razor. The sergeant rolled up his sleeves and wiped the razor against his trouser leg. He scraped it across the sleeper's hairy jaw and, in time, slowly brought him back to humanity. Ten years seemed to fall away with the stubble, leaving House looking in something like surprise at the young man now lying opposite him.

"There anyone else here?" House asked as the sergeant finished his work.

"There's an old Negro named Hector who helps out. He and his son ran out of a plantation and came to the camp. They assigned him up here."

"Call him in. He can help you wash the reb - he smells like a damned sty. There's a pump in the yard, isn't there?"

"Yes, sir, there is," the sergeant answered with strained civility, "I'll get right on it."

He left. House thought about how long he would be able to use his privilege of rank. The Army, with all its strange yet well-learned ways, was soon going to be a memory. They were getting rid of him, yet they expected that he should escort some insipid Alabama farmboy over five hundred miles from here to Chicago? That was the Army way, he reflected.

The sergeant returned presently, this time accompanied by a thin Negro of just under sixty years. The two men, watched with clinical detachment by House, lifted the prisoner from his bed and stripped off his grimy underclothing. Wilson hung limply between their arms and didn't open his eyes. Hector and the sergeant half-carried, half-dragged him out of the room, and House twisted to see through the window behind his bed as they brought him out into the yard.

House watched Hector prop Wilson up, the Negro's slim, wrinkled arms looped under Wilson's shoulders, while the sergeant inspected the pump and tested its lever gingerly. The prisoner's body was pale and wasted in a way that House knew came from the sudden lack of food this four-day fever had brought. The sergeant began pumping the metal handle furiously up and down, sending water spilling from it. Hector hauled Wilson under the tap and let the cold water tumble down over him. He did not respond to this sudden shower expect for a few weak moans. The sergeant pointed to him, then made a remark to Hector which was covered by the falling water. Hector grinned in response and muttered something back, which House also couldn't make out.

When they had drenched the prisoner thoroughly, the two men brought him back in, his arms draped over their shoulders. His toes were stubbed and bleeding where he had been towed across the ground, and he was shaking violently. They wrapped him in his grey Confederate jacket and lay him out on his bed. There was a silence, during which all three men looked at the naked, trembling prisoner sprawled deliriously over the sheets.

"So," House broke the pause, "he's Jewish."

Corporal James Wilson came to with a start three and a half hours after his abrupt shower. He was staring up at the flaky white plaster ceiling. It was quiet in here, he noted, and the sun washed warmly over the bed in which he found himself lying. There were birds outside, and a soft spring breeze cooled his still-feverish skin. For a long, dreamy moment, he was blissful in his ignorance. It didn't last.

"Where am I?" he cried in sudden panic, sensing there was someone close by and trying to sit up. A thin Negro chuckled softly, leaned forward from his chair by the bed and laid his bony hands on Wilson's shoulders.

"You don't want to do that, son," he said in a soft, throaty voice, "You gonna make yo'self sick again."

"W...where..."

The Negro chuckled again. "Oh, just a little farmhouse in Tennessee. You wouldn't know it. Lie back, sonny, and I'll get you a little of the sergeant's broth."

"Who are you?" Wilson asked, shifting his back up against the wall to a semi-sitting position.

"My name? Hector. You try to lie back now, and I'll get you some of that broth."

He got up and shuffled to the door, Wilson's eyes darting after him and taking in the room uncertainly. With his hand on the door, Hector turned back.

"Oh, by the way, sonny – you a prisoner." He bared his teeth good-naturedly and departed.

Wilson barely registered the fact he had already worked out. His gaze was fixed on the man in the bed opposite. He was older than Wilson and with lighter hair, curled up on his side fast asleep. His hair was sticking out at angles and his jaw unshaved. His uniform was piled on and around the bedside chair, and it didn't take Wilson long to spot the cane. Wilson wondered what the man's injury was. There were several patches of dark dried blood on the sheets, which were grimy and unwashed.

Almost as if he knew he was being watched, the man turned suddenly and opened his eyes. They swivelled towards Wilson almost immediately, staring brazenly. Wilson smiled politely.

"Good afternoon, friend. My name's James Wilson."

As if he hadn't heard, the man sat up and swung his legs over the bed. He put on his blue jacket and picked up the cane, getting to his feet and hobbling unevenly out the door without a backward glance. Wilson stared after him. He was already uncertain how he was going to be treated by his captors, and this encounter did not instil much confidence in him. Even with the sound of Hector next door, he felt inescapably lonely. In the yard came the sound of water being pumped and Wilson assumed that the strange Union soldier was washing. He wondered how he was operating the pump and cleaning himself at the same time, but the musing left him as soon as the door opened and the smell of warm soup washed in.

"Sit down, Hector. I want to talk a little while I eat."

Hector handed over the bowl and settled himself on the chair.

"Well? What you want to talk about?"

"Who's he? Out back," Wilson indicated the yard with his head. Hector flashed a secret smile and shook his head.

"That, son? That's the devil himself. The crossest, most disagreeable sonofabitch I seen in a good long time. And you're gonna get to know him good."

"Me?" Wilson said, a note of horror creeping into his voice, "why?"

"He gonna be taking you up to Chicago to be put in a prison camp."

Wilson sighed. Loneliness was flooding into him, alone in this strange place. Hector watched the prisoner carefully, and seemed to sense his misery.

"Where you come from, son?"

"Me? Alabama."

"Me too. How'd you like that? I was sold across to Tennessee before my boy was born, but I was born and raised in Alabammy."

"I never saw many slaves," Wilson said softly, lowering his eyes. Outside, the sound of the water stopped. "Who is that feller out there anyway?"

"One Captain Gri'gry House. Surgeon with the reg'ment."

"Surgeon?" Wilson's eyes seemed to spark with interest.

"Yes, and a fine one too, so I hear. I only know what they tell me about him."

"What happened to his leg? That ain't a new wound."

Hector nodded in confirmation and stretched out on the chair. "Got it blowed up at Manassas last year. The stubborn devil wouldn't let them do away with the leg, so they just kinda cut out the bad part. Like Jacob, you know?"

Wilson mulled this over, picturing the scene in his mind. "I know," he said vaguely, "_'And when he saw that he prevailed not against him, he touched the hollow of his thigh; and the hollow of Jacob's thigh was out of joint, as he wrastled with him'_."

"You know your Book better than me. What does it say? _'Limping with the touch of the Lord'_, I believe."

"He hate everyone, or is it just me?"

"Most everyone," Hector replied, grinning, "except a nigger he got for an orderly named Foreman. Guess he won't see him nomore, on account of they're discharging him."

A heavy, clumping step entered the back door. Hector took the now-empty bowl from Wilson's lap and departed with a wink. House shoved open the door and stumped across the bare boards to his bed. He was in his uniform, but his hair was wetly plastered to his head. He lay on the bed and withdrew a newspaper from under the pillow. He steadily ignored Wilson.

"You think you're bitter about this, you should try being me," Wilson remarked after several minutes of silence.

"Wilson," House said sternly, "I'm trying to read about our glorious victory."

"You can call me Jimmy."

"No, thanks."

Wilson laughed, and tossed aside his blankets. Shakily at first, he walked towards the window and leaned his hands on the sill.

"When do we leave?"

House looked over the top of the newspaper. "Tomorrow, first light. Think you'll be well enough? If you die on my hands, I might not get my pension."

"I'll be fine. I'm feeling fine – well, tolerable."

"Good. Got any whiskey?" House asked, extracting from his pocket a brown bottle.

"Yeah," Wilson walked back to the bed and rummaged in his uniform until he found a small iron hip flask. He threw it lightly over to House. House picked up a glass of water from the bedside chair and threw its contents out the window behind his head. He then measured a small amount of the brown liquid into it and topped it up with liquor. He screwed the cap on the flask and threw it back to its owner.

"Laudanum," Wilson said quietly, "for the pain."

"No, because it covers the taste of the whiskey," House muttered darkly, downed the glass and set it down. He shot Wilson a cold, unflinching stare. Wilson looked at him, raised the flask and drained it dry.


	4. Tests

**A/N: **Thanks to my beta, maineac, on LJ. Her awesome is blinding. Reviews are love.

**Pittsburg Landing, Tennessee – April 11th, 1862**

_And when we came to Rome, the centurion delivered the prisoners to the captain of the guard: but Paul was suffered to dwell by himself with a soldier that kept him_. **Acts 28:16**

**James Wilson sat atop a sorrel mule, wrapped in a dark blue blanket and shivering. The sun would soon be starting to rise – he could tell by the gradual paling of the slate grey sky - but the clouds were too thick to let any rays become visible. A brisk wind whistled all around, and a light drizzle licked at his face and made his nose run. His stomach had the sick liquid emptiness that comes with early mornings and the prospect of a long journey ahead. On his back, under the cover of the blanket, was a canvas satchel containing the few necessities the sergeant had given him. A bedroll was strapped behind the saddle. Wilson checked the straps for the last time with chilly, damp hands that fumbled painfully with the cold metal, trying to distract himself from the growing fear that he was going to vomit. He felt unutterably miserable as another draft of cold air lashed the rain on his face and he felt its sting. He looked up, wiping the water from his lashes. It was still too dark to see further than the nearest hills.**

**About ten feet away, on the other side of the farmhouse yard, House's voice rose and fell with the wind. He, the sergeant and Hector were still attaching and adjusting House's mule's load. Twenty minutes before, House had stalked out of the farmhouse with Wilson at his back and stared in disbelief at the rides that had arrived for them in the night.**

**"This is a joke, isn't it?"**

**"Sir?" the sergeant had ventured tentatively. House slowly turned from the tied-up mules to face the men. **

**"These are mules."**

**"Yes, sir," the sergeant answered. Hector began snickering quietly at the man's obvious discomfort. House smiled dangerously. **

**"Can't be expected to ride on mules, sergeant. We will be requiring horses if we are to reach Chicago before the war's over."**

**The sergeant had made excuses, and eventually House tired of pursuing the point and silently began to load up the mounts. Hector and the sergeant helped fix the bags and pouches to the bay mule, much to the captain's disapprobation. Everything they attached was swiftly detached by House and placed elsewhere on the animal, usually accompanied by House's muttered curses.**

**And now the final items were being fixed into place. Wilson watched the sergeant approach him followed by House, who sternly avoided looking at his charge and stared at the ground, stamping his cane down onto the soft ground.**

**"How're you feeling, Jim?" the sergeant said warmly, leaning his arm against the neck of Wilson's mule.**

**"All right," Wilson lied. "Are we ready to leave now?"**

**"Almost. Just a few things to settle. Captain," he turned and waited for House to honour him with his attention, which he did grudgingly, "here's your passport. It's been signed by the colonel, and it gives you permission to roam about and such."**

**House took the proffered document and stowed it inside his blue jacket. "And money?"**

**"Sir?"**

**"Last time I tried travelling five hundred miles without money, I had a rough time of it."**

**The sergeant reached into his coat and extracted a grubby, much-handled bill. "This here's ten dollars to start you off. That passport entitles you to collect up to ten dollars from Union headquarters in any town from here to Chicago. There should be a Union post in most towns, so just present yourself there and display the pass-card."**

**"Don't trust me with hard currency, sergeant?"**

**"It's dangerous country out there, sir – in some places it's good as lawless. On'y a blessed fool would walk around with a fair pile on them."**

**"Right," House took the ten-dollar bill and shoved it deep into his pocket. A sudden shudder passed over him as another gust of wind whipped up. The captain took a familiar brown bottle from the inside of his jacket and uncapped it. He grabbed a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and stuffed it over the end of the laudanum bottle, briefly upended it, and restored the bottle to its place. With a look of barely-disguised relief, he pressed the wetted handkerchief to his lower face and took a few deep breaths. He eyes seemed to Wilson to be somewhat misted when he returned the cloth to his pocket.**

**Hector, who had disappeared several moments before, now emerged from the farmhouse. Hearing the man's footsteps behind him, Wilson craned his head around to see, and his heart sank. The Negro held in his arms heavy wrist shackles. He passed them to the sergeant and retreated, smiling apologetically at the horrified prisoner.**

**"No," Wilson muttered, "no. My wrist is broken. You can't…"**

**"Boy," the sergeant interrupted, in a far worse mood than previously, "don't bother squallin'. Captain House's safety is the main thing here, not your blasted Reb discomfort. Y'ought to be grateful of anything you get short of a noose. Hold out them hands."**

**Wilson slowly extended his arms from the blanket around his shoulders and bit back tears as the weighty manacles were tightened around his wrists. The broken bone seemed to twist under the iron, sending bolts of pain through his arm. House finally looked up from the ground.**

**"Stop it. They don't need to be that tight."**

**Wilson looked at his guard gratefully, but House's eyes had already moved to the distant horizon. The sergeant let go of Wilson's hands, and they fell heavily down onto the mule's back, causing the creature to whinny and stamp a hoof. **

**"Here's the key, sir."**

**House took it silently, then crossed back to his mule. He had placed an empty wooden crate by its flank, and now used this to mount. As he swung himself up, a flicker of pain passed over his face, but it was quickly suppressed.**

**"All right. Let's go," he muttered. "Wilson!"**

**"Sir?"**

**"Let's go."**

**Wilson shook the reins of his mule and followed House's to where the yard disintegrated into rough grass, which led to a distant track. He twisted in the saddle and looked at the washed-out faces of Hector and the sergeant. Hector nodded and Wilson nodded back, then turned back to face the ground ahead. **

**The surroundings were hilly and scattered with dark trees from which clouds of birds erupted as their mules passed. The rain pattered down, splashing up mud from the dirt track and soaking the blanket around Wilson's shoulders. He wiped his nose and coughed wetly, his head buzzing painfully. **

**After ten minutes of riding, Wilson gasped in pain as his shackles began to chafe the skin of his swollen wrist. **

**After thirty minutes, both wrists were scraped and bleeding.**

**After an hour, he wanted to die. **

**He let out a muffled cry as the blood ran over his hands and the metal fetters ground into his flesh again. House, who had remained silent and kept his mount at least ten feet ahead of Wilson's at all times, looked back for the first time. Something flashed in his eyes, and he faced forward again, calling gruffly, "We're stopping after this hill. I want breakfast."**

**On the other side of the hill was a stream. The two men halted their mounts by the bank and Wilson waited for some instruction. He had noticed the pistol House wore at his hip, and a certain fear that he was going to be murdered and thrown in the river overwhelmed the young prisoner. House slowly dismounted and turned to Wilson. **

**"Get down," he instructed. It took Wilson several minutes to do this, maneuvering his chains carefully and hissing in pain as they cut into his wrists. When he was finally standing on the wet grass, his weighted arms hanging heavily in front of him, he saw that House had constructed a small fire under a large tree near the edge of the riverbank. **

**"Give me that," he ordered, gesturing to the sodden blanket Wilson still clutched around him. Wilson shed it, and watched House spread it over some of the tree's lower boughs, a few feet above the fire, where it would dry out. He extracted from his jacket the key he had received earlier and hobbled towards Wilson. Wordlessly, he unshackled his captive and slid the chains from his wrists. **

**"Throw 'em in the river," he muttered brusquely.**

**"I will, by thunder," Wilson mumbled wearily, holding the irons in his hands. He stood on the bank and hurled the heavy chains into the bubbling water, where they plunged into the deep with a satisfying noise. House looked at his charge, shivering in his ragged grey trousers and grimy white shirt, and frowned.**

**"Go sit over there," he said, jerking a thumb at the fire. Wilson gratefully half-stumbled forward and seemed to almost collapse by the fireside. Pulling himself up, he leaned his back against the tree trunk and extended his hands towards the small blaze before him. House unpacked a saucepan, two tin cups and a small package from the saddlebags and sat down heavily on the opposite side of the fire with them. He emptied his water bottle into the saucepan, which Wilson noted had a wire handle with a frayed length of rope tied to it. House attached this rope to a branch, so that the saucepan was suspended just over the fire. House unwrapped the package and shook some brown powder into the pan. He then proceeded to watch the muddy-coloured water come to boil, poking it occasionally with his cane.**

**Wilson brushed his hair from his eyes sleepily, and basked in the warmth of the flames. His wrists felt as though they were burning, but at least he was warm and rapidly drying, as was the blanket stretched over their heads.**

**"The skin's broken," House observed, nodding at Wilson's wrists, "you should be careful you don't catch something."**

**"I know."**

**"Do you?" House questioned, irritably.**

**Wilson nodded. "I was in medical school when I joined up."**

**House snorted, "How old are you?"**

**"Nine and twenty. Why?" Wilson answered. House leaned forward and sniffed the boiling coffee, then stood up and loosed the rope suspending the pan and set it on the grass. As he measured out the steaming liquid into the cups, House replied, "When I was your age, I had my own practice."**

**Wilson leaned forward to take his cup. "Thank you. Well, my father owns a dry goods store in Courtland, Alabama. The year I left school, the year I was supposed to go away to college, his business partner disappeared. He took nearly five thousand dollars with him, all my father's savings. My brothers and I had to stay home and help him build up the business again." He sipped the coffee and closed his eyes. "This is first rate."**

**"You can go clean up in a minute. You look…" House paused, "Can't think of a word. What might a Jew say?"**

**"I think," Wilson smiled, "he might say I looked fershlugina. Mussed-up, like."**

**"Fershlugina," House repeated. "How far did you get in medical school?"**

**"I was three weeks off graduation when I joined up," he said, laughing. "My father said I had to come right away. Folks were getting to saying that Jim Wilson wasn't going to fight, so he ordered me to come right back home and sign up."**

**"Sounds like a fine feller," House remarked sarcastically, taking a mouthful of his drink.**

**"He's okay. He's just…Southern."**

**"And you're not?"**

**"People say I got my mother's temperament. They're right – I always seem to get along with her considerably better. Say," he added, looking to the sky, "the sun's coming up."**

**"Why yes, Jimmy," House replied, "You'll observe that it happens every day."**

**Wilson paused in surprise for a moment and then laughed, at first nervously, but eventually with heart. Both men drained their cups and slowly got to their feet. Wilson picked up the saucepan, filled it with river water and quenched the fire. **

**Two hours later, the sun was rising in the sky, rain was a distant memory and two men rode side by side along a Tennessee dirt track.**

**"Are we going to hit on a town anytime soon?" Wilson asked, pulling down the visor of his forage cap and squinting in the sunlight.**

**"Soon. Two or three miles. You want to stop?"**

**"I'd like to buy some paper to write my mother. And the mules could do with a rest, right?"**

**House nodded, and flicked the reins up, driving his mount on a little faster. They reached a sleepy little town in just under half an hour, a tired Southern town stifling under its captivity, Wilson thought. They tied their mules to a hitching post, where they lapped at the water-trough eagerly, and looked up and down the dusty main street. It was almost completely deserted. There was a saloon about halfway up it, a general store and a tobacconist further down. **

**"I'm going for a drink. Meet me in there when you're done." House paused, then added, "Want any money?"**

**Wilson shook his head absent-mindedly. "No, thankee. I got forty-eight cents in my pants."**

**"Bully for you," House muttered, and stumped away in the direction of the saloon. **

**Wilson stretched his sore arms, bracing them tightly behind him and leaning back his head, his face turned up towards the blue, cloud-scraped sky. The sun beat down on the orange dust of the road and seemed to melt into the skyline, like a...he was too tired to think of a suitable analogy, so headed for the general store. It was a strange feeling, he reflected, to be a prisoner in the South, in his homeland. It was, in fact, somewhat ridiculous. He sighed, stamped his foot to get rid of the pins and needles the long ride had put into it, and headed into the general store. Behind the counter, a short, white-haired man in a brown waistcoat was counting out coins. He looked up, and whipped out a pair of spectacles from the waistcoat pocket. He squinted through them, then reached slowly under the counter. When his hand appeared again, a rickety-looking firearm was clasped in it.**

**"Hell!" Wilson exclaimed, leaping backwards. There was an odd pause, before he thought to speak. "What is this?"**

**"Deserter, ain't ya? I see them grey pants!" snapped the old man, cocking the weapon.**

**"No…no," Wilson replied, edging backwards very slowly, "I'm a prisoner – my guard's just across the way. You want to put that thing down? Look, these are the marks of the chains!" he pushed back his sleeves and exhibited the garish rings of dried blood and torn skin.**

**"Well," the old man chewed the inside of his cheek with an attitude of deep consideration, "g'wan, then. What can I do for you?"**

**Wilson gaped. The man's tone was as polite as if the whole incident had never occurred. "Just a few sheets of paper and an envelope, please."**

**"There you are, young man. You can have 'em for free, and I wish you well."**

**"Uh…thanks," Wilson said uncertainly, heading for the door as fast as he thought polite.**

**He tucked his purchases in the waistband of his trousers and headed up the street. As he stepped onto the saloon's porch and stretched out a hand to push open the door, he felt something poke him in the centre of the back. He flinched, wondering if it was the gun-barrel another perturbed resident, but upon turning around, he saw that it was House's cane, with House on the end of it.**

**"I thought you were in there," Wilson said stiltedly, tilting his head back to indicate the barroom behind.**

**"Just went to fill up," House patted the hip flask at his belt. "It was a test, to see if you were going to run. Don't look so fearful, Jimmy, you passed. Or failed," he added, brightly. "Guess it depends how you look at it. Come on."**

**About halfway back to the mules, House looked impatiently over his shoulder at Wilson. "What happened to you? You look bewildered like you seen a Reb victory."**

**"Feller in the store, took me for a deserter, jabbed a gun in my face. I liked to drop dead."**

**House snorted in amusement.**

**"Well, I'm glad you think it so blamed amusing," Wilson said, but he was smiling as he swung himself up onto his mule and leaned down to untie it. **

**They continued along the rough country road, occasionally veering off into woodland at House's whim. Wilson had no choice but to follow him, as he jerked his mount towards any piece of land that caught his attention. On one such event they were trotting through a dark patch of forest, House looking quickly about him like a curious animal, when Wilson voiced his unease.**

**"Do you reckon we oughta be out here? Seems to me like we're bound to lose ourselves sooner or later."**

**"Later's fine with me," House replied, leaning down from the slow-moving mule to poke a fat frog with his cane. He smiled almost childishly to see it leap away. "Anyway," he added, "what do you care? Longer we take, more Union currency you'll be costing. Bringing down the army from the inside."**

**"I guess," Wilson said, unconvinced. "But I'll tell you that bringing down the Union army is only my secondary concern, my primary one being not dying."**

**House grinned broadly, and somewhat alarmingly. Then, his amusement seemed to fade, and he answered sullenly, "If I was you, I'd try and enjoy myself, because you won't once we get to Chicago."**

**They emerged from the trees, and both men scanned the ground ahead to pick up the track they had abandoned half an hour ago.**

**"It's hot," House stated, as they trotted towards the track once more.**

**"Powerful," Wilson agreed. He was already hot and tired enough to sleep, but his pocket watch only showed three o'clock.**

**"We're stopping over yonder. There's a creek on the other side of that farmhouse."**

**Wilson swallowed the hardtack he had been chewing on. "How'd you know that?"**

**"When they aren't pointing guns at strangers, the residents of Suspiciousville, Tennessee like to talk."**

**Wilson shook his head in mild awe, and resumed gnawing on the rock-hard biscuit.**

**They came to a halt by a small creek of clear water tumbling steeply over rounded brown rocks, and climbed down from their rides. Wilson noted House's gritted teeth and snort of frustration as he slowly lowered himself to the ground, as though he were angry with himself for having to move so awkwardly. Wilson thoughtfully looked away, turning appreciatively to the lush shrubbery along the riverbanks and listening to the gurgling of the crystal waters.**

**"I'm gonna sit down and write that letter, if I may."**

**House shrugged. "Do what you want. I'm washing."**

**When Wilson had seated himself against a tree trunk, he saw that House was heading past him.**

**"Where you going?"**

**"I said I was going to wash."**

**"You…" Wilson said, then broke off hesitantly. House continued along the riverside, getting a good distance away before Wilson looked over his shoulder towards him and blurted out, "I was in medical school for two years, sir. I seen plenty worse."**

**He stopped speaking as suddenly as he had started. House froze for a moment, letting the sound of chirping birds fill the silence, then continued as though he hadn't heard. Wilson leaned his head back against the tree meditatively for a few moments, wishing he had not spoken, then proceeded to draw up his knees, spread his paper across them and begin writing. As the pencil stub moved over the thin sheet, Wilson listened to the soft sounds of House getting into the water and swimming a little. Something in him wanted to turn and look upstream, a ghoulish curiosity, but he kept his eyes firmly on the page in front of him. Time passed quietly, with only the gurgling stream and the faint scratching of his pencil to remind him that he was actually there. He finished off the note somewhat absently, then tilted back his head against the solid tree trunk and felt the dappled sunlight on his face. A great weariness washed over him, one that he had been holding off since getting up that morning.**

**He must have dozed off, for he woke to find House's shadow fallen over him and his voice resonating through Wilson's ears.**

**"'Dearest Mother,'" House was saying, loudly, the freshly-written letter held at arm's length. Wilson scrambled to his feet, and House retreated a few steps. His hair was wet, and he wore only an undershirt over his blue trousers. **

**"That's mine, House!" Wilson yelped, forgetting his previous manners.**

**House staunchly ignored him, continuing in a heavy Southern drawl, "'I hope that this letter finds you well as it finds me.' That's not very nice, Jimmy - you're a mess."**

**"Give it back! And I don't talk like that!" Wilson leapt forward, but House thrust out his cane and kept him at the end of it, still reading.**

**"'I am sorry to report that I was not able to attend the Shavuot…'"**

**"That's a Jewish holiday," Wilson reluctantly annotated, resigning himself to his fate.**

**"Know what it is, Wilson. '…the Shavuot service organised by Corporal Solomons as I had hoped, on account of I have been taken prisoner. I should have wished you to know this earlier, but I injured my wrist in battle and have been unable to hold a pencil until now. But I am much improved now, and am being sent to a prison camp in the North, though I think it best that I do not say where precisely. The weather is exceeding hot…'"**

**"That does not say 'exceeding'! It's 'exceedingly'! I don't talk like that!"**

**"Hush when I'm reading, Wilson, or I'll get confused. '…but I hope it will cool off by the by. My only companion on this…' Aha! Here's the good stuff!" House exclaimed, "'My only companion on this journey is a Yankee surgeon who is being discharged because of his injuries, most recently a punctured abdomen, but he also lost part of his thigh at Manassas last year and as a result cannot walk in the normal fashion. He gets along with a stick, and I fancy that the injury gives him a great deal of trouble, for he often seems terribly pained, and takes more laudanum than you would approve of, Mother.'"**

**Wilson had one hand covering his eyes, and the other one curled into a fist at his side. "Are you done?" he asked, colouring up.**

**House scanned the remainder of the letter briefly. "Ye-es," he said, at length, tossing it onto Wilson's lap, for the prisoner had now sunk to the ground in an attitude of despair.**

**"Go, wash," House commanded. "I'll make us something to eat. Bacon?"**

**"No bacon," Wilson answered, firmly, getting up and beginning to unbutton his shirt. House nodded, biting his lower lip gently in apparent thought. Soon, chicken and potatoes were boiling in a metal pot over another small blaze and when Wilson emerged from the creek and dressed, feeling airy and at peace, a plate of them was waiting for him by the warm embers of the dying fire.**

**He smiled as he rubbed his shirt through his wet hair and took his place opposite the surgeon. Maybe it would be all right after all.**


	5. One Step Forward

A/N: Thanks once more to **maineac**, my beta, whose patience is limitless in correcting my abuses of the English language. And also, for this chapter, the French language. Is there nothing she can't do? And thanks to all you reviewers, who are kindness itself. Next chapter should be up before my birthday (5th March – yay, I'll be sixteen!).

**Perry County, Tennessee – April 13th, 1862**

"Wake up."

"Wake up." A little louder this time.

"Corporal Wilson!" the voice barked, and a cane was thrust into Wilson's ribs. His eyes flew open, startled, and he sat bolt upright. It took him a few seconds to remember where he was, wrapped in his blanket by the banks of a narrow creek, of which there seemed to be hundreds in the area, amongst the thick grass and low bushes. House was standing over him, and when he was satisfied that his prisoner was awake, he began to walk away. Wilson rubbed his eyes hard and blinked several times. The sun was coming up, and a fire was already crackling nearby.

House, he noticed, was walking extremely slowly, his gait more uneven than usual. The stench of laudanum was still in the air where he had formerly stood. Wilson smelt it and dragged himself to his feet. He clutched the blanket around himself and moved sleepily to the warmth of the fire. The mules were digging into the oats which had been thrown onto the ground in front of them.

"Last time I cook. Your turn next," House said, as Wilson settled himself on the opposite side of the flames. The captain had already rigged the cooking pot above the heat.

"All right," Wilson agreed, distantly. "Is your leg worse?"

"The ground and my leg are engaged in an ongoing dispute."

Wilson reached into a pocket and pulled out a piece of hardtack. With some effort, he snapped off a corner and ground his teeth into it, growling, "Y'hear the one about the feller that bit into his hardtack and found something soft? A six-inch nail."

House snorted softly at the joke and stirred the pot. Wilson leaned over and looked into it.

"Beans. How long you had 'em in there?"

"Few hours."

Wilson looked up in surprise and House averted his eyes. "Couldn't sleep. Go get a couple of dishes."

Wilson fetched the tin plates and spoons from their baggage and set them down by the fire. House spooned the beans onto them, and there was a short silence. A flock of birds passed across the dawn sky, and something rustled in the bushes nearby, but no other sound was in the air.

"If your leg…"

"Tomorrow we'll be in a boarding house. We got the money."

"That sounds good," Wilson said, encouragingly. He got up and carried the pan to the creek. When he had rinsed and refilled it, he shook in sugar and coffee powder from the saddlebags and hung it back over the fire. House picked up a three-day old newspaper and began to read it.

Wilson did not look entirely satisfied. He looked, in fact, decidedly shifty. He saw that House was looking at him hard over the paper.

"What?" he demanded roughly.

"Huh?" Wilson paused, spoon in mouth, then swallowed the beans and said, uncertainly, "What if there ain't any room in a hotel, or they're all closed up because of the fighting?"

House grinned wickedly. "Well, what would your dearest mother say if she knew little Jimmy had spent the night in a brothel?"

He watched with pleasure as Wilson blushed furiously and then replied with a flippant, "She'd probably be glad I held a woman down that long."

House looked at him curiously, and Wilson shook his head and lowered his eyes as though he wished he had not spoken. Looking up to see that House still stared at him, he felt compelled to explain himself.

"I been engaged three times."

House let out a rude snort of derisive laughter. "Really? Never married any of them?"

Wilson shook his head, looking mortified, and tried to keep his eyes on his plate. It was difficult to maintain cool detachment when House was still grinning in obvious glee. "Oh boy!" he exclaimed in ghastly delight, "What happened? They decided they'd rather throw themselves in the lake than become Mrs. Wilson?"

Wilson's face began to cloud as embarrassment gave way to anger. House continued blithely, "What an idiot! Anyone stupid enough to say he'll marry a girl deserves all he gets, but…"

"Hell, you're one to talk so!" Wilson suddenly shouted, leaping to his feet. "You been married!"

The silence that followed this exclamation was a heavy one, filled only by Wilson's ragged breathing. A stunned expression on House's face called the younger man back to his senses immediately. He sat down heavily, suddenly calm and remorseful. "I saw the ring mark on your finger. Ain't common on a man, so I noticed. I'm sorry I mentioned it. How long ago'd she die?"

House looked as through he had been kicked in the teeth, but admiration for Wilson's observation skills moved him to give an answer.

"She isn't dead." As soon as the words left his mouth, House stood up, gritting his teeth in pain, and stumped across to the mules. He began saddling them and attaching their saddlebags. Wilson stood up and looked after him uncertainly. He wondered whether he should ask any more or whether he had done enough damage to the tentative understanding between them. He decided that things would not be worsened by a natural follow-up question.

"Well…what, then? What happened?"

"Same as with you. Didn't work out," House said. He threw a couple of tin cups at Wilson. "Coffee's ready."

Wilson picked up the cups but did not move to fill them. "You…divorced?"

"Yeah. Fill those cups."

"I never met anyone divorced before," Wilson muttered, pouring the steaming hot coffee into the cups and sipping at his meditatively. He carried House's to him, which earned him a grunt of appreciation. The captain stopped equipping their mounts to sit on a tree stump and drink. "Oh, for God's sakes, Wilson," he snapped, "stop looking at me like I ate your mother. Anyone would think I divorced _you_."

They rode for most of the day, with short breaks for the mules to rest. At five o'clock, they came to a small town. As they trotted along the main street, locals came out onto their porches or stared from behind windows. Wilson looked about him uneasily - this was not a town that was used to strangers. Next to him, House clicked softly to get Wilson's attention.

"Wilson," he hissed, "try to look a little happier."

"Huh? Why?"

"The way the locals are looking at us, I get the impression that this is not Union occupied land. In fact," he mumbled, "I think you ought to do the talking while we're here. I'll wait here; you go into that barroom and ask around for somewhere to stay. If possible, somewhere I won't leave with a steak knife in my back."

"Right you are," Wilson muttered, raising his eyebrows and sliding stiffly to the ground. After dusting down his clothes, he took a deep breath and walked into the darkened saloon.

He re-emerged into the sunlight ten minutes later, smelling slightly of liquor, to find House sitting on the edge of the porch, tapping his cane between his ankles. Wilson cleared his throat softly.

"Feller in the bar said there's a woman in the next street who rents out a room."

"Good. Let's go. And that's one whiskey you owe the Union."

The woman turned out to be a sprightly widow of about fifty, who was more than happy to put up the two men for a very reasonable fee. The room she showed them to was small, containing two narrow beds and a large wooden dresser and not a lot else. The window looked down into a dusty alleyway, which House now stared out over as Wilson staggered into the room and dumped their baggage on the floor, puffing.

"You know, I think you could have managed some of this…" he mumbled, falling down into a small, low armchair and closing his eyes.

"Maybe, but it wasn't worth the risk. What if I'd fallen down on the stairs and hurt a leg?" House said, turning from the window and looking at the recumbent Wilson. "You lazy sonofabitch," he said, almost fondly. "The widow said there's a room at the end of the hall with a washstand. You can go get clean."

When Wilson had dug a bar of soap from their luggage and slipped out of the room, House let out a long, ragged breath. The pain he had been hiding for hours seemed to surge through him violently and he shuddered uncontrollably with it. He tried to step forward, his leg burned and he fell to the floor with a wild jerk. He suppressed a cry of pain and reached a hand out along the floorboards. The bags Wilson had brought in were a few inches away from his face. His hand clutched at various pouches and satchels until he grabbed a flat, hard package. He lifted his head from the ground and tore the brown paper with his teeth. Inside was a dark wooden box with a brass clasp on the front. House ground his teeth as he dragged himself into a sitting position against the bed with the box in one hand, then opened it. Inside were a glass syringe and four small glass bottles containing a clear liquid. The pain was so bad now that he barely saw his own hands as they prepared the syringe and his hands shook as he measured the liquid from one of the small bottles and returned it to its case.

His arm seemed to blur before his eyes and he was aware that he was making a strange sound, like an animal mewling. At least he wasn't screaming. A strong wave of agony passed through him, and, instinctively, he plunged the hand downwards and felt the needle prick his arm. His shaking thumb pushed the plunger down, and then his hand, holding the syringe so tightly that his knuckles were white, fell limply down at his side and he arched his head back, waiting.

As soon as the pain began to fade, House stirred himself into action. He put away the wooden box and began trying to clean himself up before Wilson returned. He washed his face, shaved off most off the three-day growth and combed his hair, checking the red rims around his eyes were nearly gone. He felt shaky and slightly sick, but at least his leg didn't feel like a hand was gripping his tendons and twisting them, ripping them out. A little light-headed, perhaps, but Wilson couldn't notice that. He leaned out the window and took some deep breaths as Wilson's returning footsteps became apparent in the hall. The door opened and Wilson strode in, looking flushed and healthy.

"Can I borrow that comb?"

"Sure," House said absently. Wilson crossed to the basin, next to the window, and picked the comb up. He squinted into the mirror, but his arm paused halfway to his head. He looked at House's reflection, and something was not right. He could feel House tense next to him, though he kept his gaze fixed out the window.

"House?" Wilson said hesitantly. House turned his head just slightly; enough to see Wilson's confused face.

"What?"

"Are you all right?...Your shirt..." Wilson trailed off, and House looked down at himself, puzzled. His shirt was wet, sides and back covered in sweat.

"Oh, God…damn it…I'm going to go wash…" House muttered, grabbing his only other shirt from the pile of luggage and leaving as quickly as he could manage, with Wilson staring after him.

The bathroom at the end of the hall contained a large washstand and a tin bath. The bath was half-full and set before a roaring open fire in the rear wall of the small room. House realised, as he undressed, that Wilson had done this for him, and he half-smiled. This smile soon faded as he peeled off his soaked shirt and threw it down in disgust. He was angry with himself for overlooking something so obvious, so elementary. He had done everything to disguise his activities from Wilson, yet forgotten the most glaringly obvious thing...He stopped himself, telling himself that Wilson wouldn't make the connection, wouldn't think any more about it.

House remembered, with a pang, the wedding ring conversation. Maybe Wilson was smarter than he thought.

Wilson looked at his reflection, dissatisfied. His white shirt was depressingly filthy, and the bottoms of his trousers were frayed and encrusted with mud. He dipped his razor in the basin, then carefully raised it to the edge of his untidy moustache. He breathed shallowly, pulling down his upper lip to get a clearer view and gently touched the metal to his skin…

"Shave it off, it's ugly!" House barked from the doorway. Wilson dropped the razor into the basin with a clang, closed his eyes and exhaled loudly.

"You want me to cut my head off?"

"That'd be a little drastic. Perhaps a paper bag would do the trick…" House replied, settling himself into the armchair.

"Can I have fifty cents?" Wilson asked, tugging at his collar unhappily.

"What for? You gonna buy a shirt?"

"Fixin' to," Wilson replied. "You seem better," he added. House wasn't sure whether his tone was supposed to be significant or not. He shrugged and nodded.

"Help yourself. Take a dollar and you can get some food. Remember you're cooking tomorrow – you thought of anything creative you can do with hardtack and salt beef?"

"I was gonna fix us something Cajun," Wilson said, crossing the room and taking the shabby dollar bill House held towards him. "My grandfather – my mother's father – was Cajun. He lived with us when I was a boy, taught me some cooking of theirs."

"He teach you French?" House demanded. Not waiting for a reply, seeing from Wilson's face that it would be affirmative, he continued, "Speak some."

Wilson rubbed his sunburned neck thoughtfully, pocketed the dollar, and said hesitantly, "Esker-voo voolay allay avec mwah oo restay ici? Si votrer jamb…" he paused and searched for an appropriate continuation, "ay peer, put-etrer voo devay voo cooshay."

House looked vaguely horrified by the communication. "What in God's name was that? I thought French was supposed to be a beautiful language?"

"Not my French," Wilson grinned.

"Well, what'd you say?"

"I said 'Do you want to come with me or stay here? If your leg is worse, maybe you should go to bed.'"

"Thanks for the advice, but…" House was cut off by a knock at the door and the sound of the widow's voice from behind it.

"Gentlemen? Are y'all in there?" There was a silence as House ignored the question. Wilson waited until he saw that he wasn't planning on replying.

"Yes'm," Wilson called back finally, walking forward and opening the door a little. "What's the matter?"

"Two gentlemen from the plantation want to speak to the surgeon. He might oughta come downstairs and see for hisself," the woman said. Wilson turned to where House sat and raised his eyebrows questioningly. House rolled his eyes and pulled himself out of the armchair, grasping for his cane.

In the small parlour were the two visitors. One sat on the hard purple sofa, a tall man in a black suit and Derby hat with a small blond moustache. The other was a redhead in a rough gray coat and dusty brick-red trousers who stood by the window with his hands behind his back. He turned as House and Wilson entered, with the widow following at a distance, and smiled amiably but did not speak. The man in the suit stood up and held out his hand.

"I'm Al Fosse. This is my brother-in-law, Henry Franklin."

Wilson shook the proffered hand and nodded politely. "James Wilson. I'm proud to meet y'all."

The visitors looked expectantly at House.

"Gregory House. I'm not."

Wilson coughed loudly and attempted to move the conversation on. "Y'all are from the plantation? What's the matter?"

"Nigger bust a foot," Franklin spoke for the first time, moving in from the window, "We'd be mighty glad if you'd take a look."

"No," House cut in firmly. "Where's your doctor?"

"The Federal troops took our doctor last month," Fosse said pointedly. "If you won't come, we'll have to ride out to Goshawk City. That's eight miles away from here, and the buck might be dead by then."

"Well, if…" Wilson began, but House interrupted with an indignant expression.

"Hey! I'm the boss here! Don't listen to him, gentlemen, he's a prisoner. What happened to this feller's foot?"

"Got crushed in one of the gins. Needs seeing to mighty soon or he'll be crippled, I reckon."

"And how awful that would be," House remarked dryly. "Wilson, the plight of these gentlemen has moved me. Fetch my kit from upstairs."

"Right you are, _boss_. Guess I can forget about that new shirt…" Wilson muttered. House grinned wickedly in reply and watched the younger man head for the stairs.

It was a bumpy ride in Fosse and Franklin's pony trap, over rough farm tracks cut by the frequent passage of carts. The plantation was about two miles out of town, in a wide green valley giving way to fields of darker green stalks. Hunched figures, miniscule at first then getting clearer as they approached, moved in slow lines along the rows of newly growing cotton plants. Men in wide hats sat atop horses at either end of the fields, whips curled over their shoulders. The heat through the canvas wagon cover was intense. House shifted uncomfortably and tapped his cane on the floor of the wagon as a display of his annoyance. Wilson sat next to him on the bench seat and clasped the medical kit. He felt sick from the movement of the wagon over the dried-out, bumpy track. His throat was parched and his stomach was rebelling against him with every jolt of the vehicle. They passed over a track running between two fields, heading for the slave cabins beyond them. Wilson turned his pale, sweating face to the open air and his glassy eyes met those of the slaves, who laboured in the fields on either side of the track. A short woman in a shapeless dress with a baby in a sling over her back unbent herself to look at him. Their eyes locked for a strange moment before a rough call from one of the overseers called her back to work. At the far edge of the field, an overseer uncurled his whip and snapped it at some unfortunate below him. Wilson closed his eyes and tried to block out the sound.

"I know, I know. You're thinking: 'Why aren't they singing?'," House muttered, next to him.

They came past the fields and into an expanse of cleared ground on which stood many wooden cabins. Perhaps a hundred in all, Wilson thought. On the hill above the huts was a large, white-plastered house with grand Roman-style pillars in front of it. As the wagon halted in the midst of the cabins, the sound of wailing became perceptible. House and Wilson climbed out from the wagon, and Fosse and Franklin jumped down from the driving platform up front. The cries of pain came from one of the nearer huts.

"I'll show the way," Fosse said cordially, seemingly oblivious to the distressed groans which Wilson could not ignore.

The cabin was one large room divided by a flimsy partition. The floor was bare clay with a canvas mat which looked like it was made of sacking in the centre of it. On one side of the partition, three little boys and a girl were curled on the floor, two of them crying, with an older woman shushing them. One the other side, the injured man lay on a straw pallet, writhing and gasping, with two women kneeling at his side. One wept, while the other cleaned the blood from the man's foot with a bowl of water and a rag. His foot was a mess, but Wilson saw immediately that the injury was not so bad as to merit amputation. It needed some shattered bone removal, re-setting, stitching... It needed...a surgeon. He spun to face House, who was looking thoughtfully at the slave.

"Aren't you gonna help him?" Wilson demanded, growing distressed at the piteous screams filling the room.

"No. You are. You got the kit, you do it."

Wilson opened his mouth to protest, but House was already walking away. Sighing, Wilson knelt down by the man's side. Fosse and Franklin had not entered the hut, but the smoke of their cigars drifted through the front door and made the crying children cough. Wilson tried to focus. He quickly opened the wooden box and set it down.

"I'm Jim," he said loudly, placing a hand on the man's shoulder, "and I'm gonna be fixing your foot. What's your name?"

"My name Jim, too," the slave gasped out as Wilson picked up the wounded foot. It was gashed across the bottom, and some bone was visible in the torn flesh. Wilson picked a pair of forceps from the box.

"The bone is a little broken, Jim. I'm gonna pull out the loose parts, then set the rest back where it oughta be. All right?"

Jim nodded, breathing hard through his nose. The women by his side retreated slightly to let Wilson work.

He rested Jim's ankle across his knee and squinted into the wound. Then, he slowly moved the forceps to hover just over the tiny white splinters of bone. The children's' sobs grew louder, and Wilson flinched. A drop of sweat trickled down his temple. Then, from the other side of the partition, a low voice, House's voice.

"Listen, you're gonna have to quit that noise. It makes my buddy nervous, and if he gets nervous he'll end up killing your Pa."

"He gonna die?" whispered a frightened young voice.

"No."

"He gonna get well?"

"Don't know. You want a bonbon?"

The sobs dried up, and Wilson could concentrate on extracting the thin bone fragments. Jim squirmed and gasped, his bottom lip white where his teeth clamped on it, but he made no noise or complaint. However, when Wilson laid down the forceps and jolted the bent bone into as correct a position as could be managed, he let out a yell that shook the walls, bringing Fosse and Franklin in from the doorway.

"What happened?" Fosse exclaimed, looking suspiciously at Wilson. "Sounds like you near killed him."

"No, I was just setting the bone. I'm going to stitch the cut up now."

"Oh, you are, are you? Who the hell are you anyway? I brung the surgeon down here, not you."

Wilson ignored this and continued sewing up and binding Jim's foot, a process that took a further fifteen minutes. When he was done, he stood up and turned around. His hands were damp on the kit-box he held. There was dark blood smeared over his trousers from the seeping gash. House was leaning against the wall by the doorway.

"All done. But he won't be..." Wilson began but stopped when he realised he was being ignored, the plantation owners turning instead to House.

"Well, doc? Will he be fit to work again?"

"Yeah," House replied "Give him a month or so of light work. He'll be back in the fields before summer. Let's go."

They returned to the wagon, and House and Wilson climbed in the back. As they lurched into motion, Wilson began to doze, the heat getting the better of him, but House roused him with a jab from his cane.

"Wake up, Wilson. You did good with that buck."

"Hmmm," Wilson murmured sleepily. "Thanks. Why'd you say he'd be back in the fields? He'll be crippled for life."

"And then what would have happened? He'd be sold down the river before you can say three-fifths human."

"Why, House, I believe you're a sentimentalist at heart," Wilson yawned. "And you said I was your buddy."

House stopped jabbing him with the cane abruptly and let his arm rest at his side. He smiled, glad that Wilson's eyes were firmly closed.


	6. Two Steps Back

**A/N: **Sorry about the delay, school is back with a vengeance and seems to sap all trace of creativity from me. A thousand humble thanks to **maineac**, my beta, who must get incredibly bored of correcting the same mistakes over and over. I'm a slow learner. Enjoy.

Wilson breathed in the quiet night air, made sharp by the tang of smoke rising from the fire before him. His eyes glinted in the flames' reflection, making him look like a demon in the dark, squatted on his haunches. House lay outstretched and with his eyes shut, shifting uncomfortably on the hard ground. It was nine o'clock and dinner was almost ready. Wilson was now established cook when in the field, his first offering, a sublime concoction of beef and peppers, sealing his fate.

"Isn't that ready yet?" House complained, opening an eye and squinting up at him.

Wilson stirred the contents of the pot and frowned at them. "I'm...not sure. Want to try it?"

"Well - no, not really," House replied, propping himself up on an elbow. "When you're certain that it won't kill me, then we'll talk."

There was a beautiful quiet; the cold night air warmed by the spicy wood smoke, and the soft sound of House's breathing at his side. There was a filmy calm in House's eyes that Wilson had learned to associate with the little brown bottle which was always at his side. One dose in the morning to quell the waking moans which often called Wilson from his sleep, and one in the evening to briefly smooth the hard lines of pain from the man's forehead before he lay down to sleep.

"How's your leg?"

"Partly missing. How's yours?" House snapped; then sighed. "I'm used to it."

"_Agonies are one of my changes of garments_," Wilson quoted, brooding over the flames, "_I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person_."

"_My hurts turn livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe_," House finished. "Whitman. Very apt."

"Right," Wilson agreed, smiling gently. He spooned up some of the stew from the pot, blew on it and swilled it around his mouth. "I think this is fit for human consumption."

"Should be," House grumbled. "I've spent enough money buying ingredients for you."

He sat up and handed Wilson the plates. The stew, yellow-ish and steaming, was ladled into them and set upon ravenously by its recipients.

"Oh God," House murmured, his eyes closing. "That is..."

Wilson grinned. "What would you eat if I escaped?"

"Where would you go?" House asked, so sharply that Wilson frowned. House went on, "Feller in town yesterday, a wounded grayback. Told me that our beloved General Grant just issued an order. No Jews permitted to travel southwards on any railroad in his district."

A look of disbelief formed itself on Wilson's face and he shifted awkwardly. "But...well, that wouldn't make a bit of difference to me. I'm a soldier."

"No, you're not," House said, sternly. "You were a soldier. Now you're a Jew." His voice softened as he saw Wilson raise his hands to his head and grind his palms into his brow. "And you forget those escaping notions. You're here for the long run."

"God knows that...oh boy," Wilson slowly raised his head and returned to consuming his soup. "I nearly died," he said, suddenly.

"Maybe you added too much pepper."

"Not now," Wilson said, waving a hand impatiently. "At Pittsburg Landing."

"Oh God, here comes the story... 'Wal, I wus comin' up by the crik when a Union feller sprung out on me. Why, he musta oughta coulda bin eight feet tall and twice the breadth of yonder oak-'"

"I don't talk like that," Wilson muttered, edgily. "No, wasn't like that at all. I was advancing with my company and there were shells coming down all about us. A feller appeared at my side, asking me to come see a wounded man, some kin of his. I said no, I had to advance with the rest and his kin would have to wait with the rest. He grabbed me and gave me a shove onto the ground. When I got my senses back, he was lying on the ground with a piece of metal through his face. If he hadn't pushed me down, it would've been me."

"And if he'd been born with the docile Wilson temperament, he'd be sitting here making me miserable instead of you. What's your point?"

"Makes me feel rotten, that's all."

"It should. Eat your soup."

They spent the next day following a broad river, trotting along at the foot of the long hills which edged the water. Mosquitoes rose up in droves and swarmed over their heads, their vicious bites provoking frequent yelps of pain from both riders. The sun was high and hot, the hillsides brown and dry, the river still and silver.

"This is the Harpeth, ain't it?" Wilson said, nodding at the shining water.

"Yeah. Tonight we sleep in Villiers, about ten miles from here. Tomorrow, we cross into Cheatham County and make for Pleasant View. Three more days and we should be into Kentucky."

Wilson lifted his kepi from his head and ran a hand through his sticky hair. "Can we stop and wash?"

"Right," House muttered, swinging his mule from the grassy trail and down the gentle slope to the river banks. Wilson followed, turning his own mount from the path.

The water was beautiful, cool and gentle against Wilson's skin. Sand lodged between his toes, soft and shifting. He was up to his waist, about twenty feet from the shore. House was sitting, shirtless, by the water's edge, leaning down and splashing his upper body and face with a cupped hand. Wilson considered calling back to him, asking if he was going to come in, then decided against it and slowly advanced deeper. The sun was heavy on his back and he dived smoothly into the water with relief. When he came up for air, wiping his eyes, House had got to his feet and was rummaging in the saddlebags. Wilson ducked down into the river again, the words of a thousand baptisms he had never had ringing through his ears.

When he resurfaced for the second time, House was back by the shore, this time with a stick, a length of string and a hook. His face was heavy with concentration, his hands working busily on his project. Wilson smiled and began rubbing away stubborn crusts of mud from himself.

After a few more moments enjoying the cool waters, Wilson waded back to the shore and spread himself on the ground to dry like a wet cloth. House raised his eyebrows.

"That how they do things in Alabama? In the North, we wear clothes."

"Oh hell, I didn't realise..." Wilson's face flushed and he scrambled to his feet and retrieved his under-shorts from the pile of his clothing he had abandoned by the mules. Clad in them, he sat down next to House. The older man raised his eyebrows again.

"Guess it's a start..."

Wilson grinned. "You fixin' to fish?"

"Mmm," House affirmed, focussed on his work once more.

The fishing pole, when finished, was tied across House's mule. House said that Wilson would have disturbed the fish for a mile around, so there was no point in using it till later.

They continued along the foothills, then arched slowly up onto plains. They arrived at Villiers at four o'clock in the afternoon. It was, Wilson saw, his heart sinking, a small town identical to the dozens they had already passed through. This one was slightly bigger, with several broad streets instead of the usual single main road. As they entered the town, a young Negro sprang out from a wooden shed by the roadside.

"Can I take yo' mules, gentlemen? One dollar for the night."

"Yeah," House answered. Wilson swung down from his mount and waited for House to stretch slowly down and reach the dusty earth and then pull a dollar from his coat. The stable hand took both sets of reins in his hand and led them away towards the shed, House's dollar tucked into his suspenders. House and Wilson proceeded along the wooden boardwalk, past a few drifting residents. They gave House hard stares from below tattered bonnets or stained slouch hats. Every man looked as though he were spoiling for a fight and a few even hovered a hand over their hips warningly. House ignored them, urging Wilson onwards when he hesitated.

A boarding house was situated about halfway up the street. The interior was fairly grand for such a small town. The floor of the lobby was carpeted in red, with a golden hanging lamp in the thickly plastered ceiling. A large oak desk stood opposite the front door through which House and Wilson entered. A woman in a dark blue frock with a pinched face and iron-grey hair sat in a high chair behind it. House dragged his kepi forwards off his head and held it at his side upon seeing Wilson do so.

"Ma'am," he said, gruffly, "How much for two rooms for the night?"

"Two dollars," she said, looking him up and down.

House laughed under his breath. "There a Union office in this town?"

"Yes sir, there is," she said, smiling pleasantly, but looked none too happy about this fact. "Next street."

"Well then, we'll take it. Two bucks."

Wilson had drifted off for a moment, looking beyond the desk, where a staircase curved upwards onto a narrow landing containing several doors. The rooms, he fancied, would be comfortable, and sleeping in a good bed again would be fine. He was brought back down to Earth by the voice of the woman speaking once more.

"That's fine, two rooms. Eight and nine, just up them stairs. I keep a reputable house"--she inspected House's epaulettes pointedly--"_Captain_. I lock up at ten, and my husband Virgil sees to any trouble. Will you be eating breakfast here?"

"Well, your hospitality makes it mighty hard to refuse," House said, forcing Wilson to suppress a snort of laughter. "What is it?"

"Eggs and ham."

"Right, put us down for them." House paused here and looked at Wilson, who was shaking his head and widening his eyes expressively. "Oh, yeah. No ham for him."

The woman narrowed her eyes and looked at Wilson in a way that made his face tingle.

"Don't he like ham?"

"I guess he doesn't know, being that he's never had it."

"A Hebrew?" she said after a moment's pause, during which her inspection of Wilson intensified. He took a step forward.

"Is there a problem?" he asked apprehensively. She drew in a breath and turned a little more towards House.

"I'm afraid we won't be able to put you up after all, gentlemen," she said, in a pleasant but firm voice. Wilson felt his cheeks burning and wondered why he felt ashamed more than angry. He took another step forward, putting himself closer to the desk than House, who was watching him with a careful eye.

"Ma'am," he said, quietly, "I'd be mighty glad to know what exactly your objection is to my being here."

"I'm afraid we just can't accept you. It's our policy."

"Policy?" Wilson took another step forward, placing his trembling hands flat on the desk and trying to keep his voice low and steady. "You got a policy against soldiers of the Confederacy?" His legs were shaking now, too; and he was aware that his voice was shaking with anger. The woman's cold expression melted not at all under his hot gaze.

"Policy of the establishment. No Jews, Negroes or animals."

"Good job I left Sambo and the dog outside," muttered House, and Wilson became aware of a firm pressure being exercised on his left shoulder. In his distress, Wilson had not noticed House's hand there. "Come on," he urged softly. Wilson allowed himself to be steered to the doorway and out into the bright sunshine.

"Come on." House's voice shook him from a kind of trance. "We're going downtown. This time, stick with the war hero thing and let the son of Abraham truck go unsaid, okay?"

"Okay," Wilson repeated, falling into step with House, a precise pace that he had adapted to over the past ten days. They made their way through a small alleyway and emerged into a scrubby town square with a dry fountain in the centre. Over on one side of the square, a Union sergeant sat on a stool in front of a porch covered with recruitment posters. On another side, a pale green house exhibited a card in the window advertising rooms for rent. Wilson waited, kicking up dust thoughtfully, while House stumped across its porch and disappeared within.

"Come on," the captain hailed him from the doorway a moment later and Wilson slowly entered, dragging their luggage once again.

The room House had managed to secure they had to share. Wilson volunteered to sleep on the hard, low sofa before House could command him to. It was a fairly large room, with a clean wooden floor and very little furniture. Wilson splashed his face in the washstand, looking through a small window onto the square below. When he turned around, House was stretched out on the bed, his eyes tightly closed and his cane balanced across his chest.

"You want me to get some food?" Wilson asked.

"Mmm. Money's in my coat. Try the woman downstairs; she said she'd fix us something if we wanted it."

Wilson departed, and returned ten minutes later bearing two thick ham sandwiches.

"She said we could have appleade if we wanted it," he said, handing House his sandwich as he sat up on the mattress.

"Coffee'd be better."

"Told her that. She's gonna send a pot up with the coloured help."

A small Negro boy brought the copper pot to the door a few moments later, his thin arms straining to hold the cloth-wrapped handle. Wilson slipped him a nickel and poured the steaming liquid into their tin cups. A couple of hours passed in comparative peace. House napped, then left Wilson letter writing while he walked down to the Union headquarters and picked up another ten dollars. Wilson was sealing the envelope when House came in.

"What's the time?"

"A quarter past eight," Wilson answered, after consulting his pocket watch. "Why?"

"Here's a dollar and fifty cents. Go get drunk. I'm going to sleep."

House's tone as he held out the money suggested that the conversation was over. Wilson surveyed his guard thoughtfully, but finding no trace of any particular emotion he accepted the money with a curt "Thanks" and quietly changed into his new shirt, bought the previous day. House was already stretched out under the blankets, breathing softly and evenly.

"See you later," Wilson muttered as he slipped out the door, getting no reply.

He passed more time than he intended to in a pleasant saloon he found on one of the larger streets the little town boasted. The company was amiable, everyone glad to buy a drink for a Southern fighter. Wilson didn't even touch the money House had given him for two and a half hours. When the subject of House had first come up, there were curses, oaths and even a muttered mention of lynching that made Wilson's blood run cold, that thankfully was never built upon.

At a quarter to eleven, Wilson was steadying himself upon the stairs leading to their room and trying not to wake anyone. When he had shuffled slowly, drawing rasping drunken breaths, along the hall, he stopped in front of their door and frowned. Attached to the wood was a tacked-on paper sign. '_À la maison close. Je serai (très) occupé. Vous amuse._'

"'At the brothel...I will be very busy. Amuse yourself.' What the hell?" Wilson asked himself, tearing down the paper with a clumsy strike. Wilson looked hopelessly around him. House had the only key. He couldn't wake the landlady and he couldn't sleep in the hallway. He would have to go down and wait for House. He knew where the brothel was, he had heard the men in the saloon mention it several times. He sighed heavily and turned back towards the stairs.

The brothel was a large wooden structure on a dark backstreet, with a large wooden porch out front. Wilson, his teeth chattering as the warmth of the alcohol began to fade, sat down on the grass next to the porch and leaned his back against the wall. In the building behind, he could hear low voices and see the flicker or lights being lit and extinguished. Every now and then, a man would enter or leave the house, his boots resounding over the porch boards and rousing Wilson a little. His head lolled forward and he began to feel sleep overwhelming him. The damp ground had soaked through his trousers and he was shaking all over. A little nap, he thought, would let him forget the cold. Then there was a pleasant flood of sunlight and the smell of cut grass and he was home. It took him a moment to realise that he was asleep and dreaming, but by then it was too late. He drifted pleasantly away.

House observed, not from the brothel doorway, but from the head of a narrow alley opposite the building. His head moved in a decidedly shifty manner, and he regarded Wilson closely, checking that he was fully asleep. He bent his arms around his cane behind his neck and watched Wilson doze with his back against the building and his arms still shivering. House walked slowly across the road, wobbling a little, and came to a halt in front of the sleeper. He could smell the reek of spirits rising from Wilson's clothes and make out faint spills on his new shirt. He prodded him with his cane.

"Mmmm…gah, whatthethe...House," Wilson mumbled drowsily, rubbing his sore and bloodshot eyes and blinking at the new arrival.

"You look terrible," House said reproachfully.

"S'your fault if I do...son of a gun done took the on'y key in the place..." Wilson slurred, trying to sit up fully and failing, "So's he could go off with his girls and let me die of chill out in the road..."

He was really far gone, House thought. He wouldn't notice anything out of the ordinary about House when he himself couldn't stand. This thought cheered House so much that his ensuing treatment of Wilson was almost fond. He leant down and wrapped Wilson's arm over his shoulders and supported him as he got to his feet. Wilson frowned suddenly as he breathily pulled himself up House's chest and into a standing position.

"S'that smell? Smells stronger than laudanum...you okay?" he slurred once more, studying House's rheumy, glistening eyes with suspicion.

"Sure, I'm fine. You want to try and walk? Hotel's only a couple of streets away," he said quietly, stretching out an arm and grabbing Wilson's elbow before he keeled over. He steered Wilson in the right direction and began to advance slowly. Suddenly a subdued, night-time call came from the alley he had left a few minutes before.

"Captain!"

House spun around, letting go of Wilson's elbow. A small Chinese man with a long wooden pipe in one hand and a dark blue jacket in the other was edging out from the alley.

"What? _What_?" House hissed urgently. If Wilson spotted this guy, the game would be up. House looked anxiously back towards his charge. Wilson was on his knees with his back to them, throwing up into the dust of the roadway. Looked like his secret was safe.

"You forget your coat, Captain."

"Thanks," House muttered absently, taking the proffered garment. The Chinese man seemed to melt back into the shadows, and House turned swiftly back to Wilson.

"C'mon," he said, draping the jacket around Wilson's shoulders and hitching him to his feet. Wilson wiped a shaky hand over his mouth and shuddered, stumbling forward with House's assistance.

Back at the hotel, House stripped Wilson's vomit-and-drink stained shirt and threw some water over his face, then manoeuvred him to the sofa and threw a blanket over him.

When Wilson's sleeping breaths filled the air, House stood for a long time in front of the mirror, looking at his vacant eyes with their lids drooping heavily over them. A warm, sedate weariness was sapping away the strength of his legs and eventually he gave up studying himself and climbed into bed.

He had crazy dreams, just like he knew he would.


	7. Terminal Velocity

A/N: Thanks to maineac, my beta, for general brilliance and helpful advice. Thanks for all your reviews. I think this will run to 11 chapters, if anyone's interested.

**Caldway County, Kentucky – April 23rd, 1862**

They were into Kentucky now; high, green trees covered sloping hills set around the broad, flat silver of the lakes. This was not called lake region for no reason; sheet after sheet of water surrounded them, at times making House feel like he was on an island in the middle of the ocean. The cardinals in the balmy woodland filled the air with chirping. He looked at Wilson, who was slumped in his saddle, nodding in the early morning sun. He roused himself a little under House's gaze, looking from side to side with heavy-lidded eyes. He had probably never seen so much water, House thought, and in truth neither had he. It was beautiful, he knew, but every attempt he made to appreciate it was hollow. The pain in his leg drained any beauty from his surroundings. It was vicious, throbbing and trembling like a train tearing down a hill. It had gotten steadily worse since they had started out on the journey and showed no sign of getting used to day after day of riding and sleeping on hard ground.

He tried to block out the pain, letting his body sway loosely in time with the mule's movements. Wilson started suddenly and clasped at the reins. House looked at him expectantly.

"I was daydreaming..." Wilson explained. "I dreamed that I was in a tornado."

"Well...you're not," House muttered, swigging from his water canteen and biting the inside of his cheek. He wished Wilson would go to sleep again so he could take a snifter of laudanum. It was only an hour since his dose, but he felt a desperate need for more.

"No," Wilson agreed. "But I was once, when I was a little boy. Pa took me out to see it coming, and boy was I scared. Never seen a thing to beat it – louder than you'd ever imagine."

"Right," House said, not concentrating on Wilson's words. The pain flashed now, knee to hip, knee to hip. In his mind, he threw back his head and screamed at the sky. In reality, he fixed his face firmly and tried to listen to Wilson.

"It tore the roof off the barn, killed a lot of cattle in the county."

"Uh-huh."

"Were you ever in a tornado?"

"No, but my wi-" House snapped his mouth shut quickly, killing the word before it escaped, but he knew Wilson had already worked out what had been coming. "No, I wasn't," he repeated, slapping the reins down lightly.

"Your wife?"

"Nope. I was going to say, 'My whining prisoner has been talking about them so long that I feel as though I had,'" House answered quickly, but his face showed clearly that he was annoyed with himself.

"Pain makes you forget yourself," Wilson remarked.

"So does stupidity." House glared at Wilson scathingly. "So remember yourself and shut up."

From the corner of his eye, House could see Wilson rubbing his neck tentatively. The sun must have burned it again. He hissed at the sting, licked his dry lips and spoke again. "Your leg...it's gotten worse, hasn't it? Since we started out, I mean."

"How would you know what it was like before?" House asked irritably.

"No-one could live in that much pain and still perform operations." Wilson half-smiled. "The pain...it seems to get worse the closer we get to Chicago."

House swivelled his head and fixed Wilson with a contemptuous glare. "Are you suggesting that the mere thought of losing my pet redneck makes my leg worse?"

He expected Wilson to blush and mumble a denial, but instead he just shrugged. This made House strangely angry and he gave a rough snort of laughter.

"If I were you, I'd stop worrying about me and start worrying about yourself. Two weeks more and we'll be at Camp Douglas. They got the shackles and cuffs all ready for you," he said in a manner that he knew was cruel, yet he was unable to stop himself. The corner of Wilson's mouth twitched, but he held his peace stoically. House felt another twinge of annoyance at his indifference, another bolt of pain thrust through his torn muscles and he was talking again, disjointedly, talking over the pain.

"They've got the highest rate of death, inmate mortality, in the North. Only Andersonville has a higher one in the whole, whole damned country. No doctors, no food half the time. They've got a punishment, I've been told, called Morgan's mule. They make a man sit on a wooden horse, bareback, with weights in each hand until either two hours is up or the feller falls off in a faint."

He stopped talking and realised that sweat was pouring down the inner seams of his jacket and making damp little pools at his waistband. Wilson was looking at him. Damn it, House thought, he still looked more concerned about House than himself. He fell into a gloomy silence and felt the pain of his leg swell and beat through his entire body.

They rode into Audere at just after five o'clock that afternoon. It was a clean, orderly town, small but busy, unlike many of the hostile and empty dustbowls they had come through since their journey began. House liked passing along bustling streets again, absorbing sensations he had almost forgotten – the feel of shoulders pressing past him, the smell of women's clothing and the flowers in their bonnets, the hollow call of Negro work parties marching down the middle of the road and the dull scrape of sacks and barrels being lugged from warehouses and stores. A few Union men were visible on the streets, but no resentment seemed to be exhibited towards them, and they hailed him cheerfully, for he had donned his uniform again with the intention of picking up another ten dollars from the town's Union depot. A tall figure in a slouch hat was auctioning horses in the town square to an enthusiastic crowd of townspeople. House felt safe in a strange town for the first time since the war had started.

They found room in a boarding house in the centre of the town, a narrow stone house that was opposite a white-painted Baptist church and run by an elderly woman who gave them chicken stew and said they looked starved.

Another house, another room, another night, House thought as they entered their room and Wilson dumped their bags on the floor.

"You ought to scrub up a little before we go down to the depot. Make it look like you're spending their money wisely," Wilson said, washing his face in the small enamel sink and rubbing a streak of mud from his jaw.

"You ought to comb your moustache, get the dirt out of it. Better yet, get rid of it altogether," House retorted, reluctantly picking up a comb and running it unenthusiastically through his unkempt hair. "And make sure you do the shy Alabama farmboy thing at the headquarters. They love a gentleman Southerner."

The Union depot was a few streets away. The sun was setting in a final flush of heat that beat down on them and made them feel heavy and lethargic. It was a low wooden building, a former general store. A guard sat outside on a rocking chair next to a recruitment poster urging southerners to join up with the Federal Army. He sprang to his feet as the two men approached and snapped to attention, his hand coming up in a salute.

"At ease," House muttered, stepping heavily onto the porch. "Captain House and prisoner. Here to pick up ten dollars for expenses."

"In you come, gentlemen."

Inside was a desk and little else. Behind it sat a middle-aged Major in a faded blue uniform with fearsome sideburns. He got to his feet, with an unmistakeable glance at House's leg, a glance that House had become acutely aware of wherever he encountered it.

"Good morning. Take a seat," he gestured to the two wooden chairs in front of the desk. "What can I do for you?"

House pulled the slip of paper from his pocket as they took the offered seats. "Notice from Colonel Briggs. I'm to have ten Yankee dollars expenses for the upkeep of one James Wilson, formerly Corporal in the Alabama Infantry."

The Major smiled and flexed his large, rough hands. "Ten dollars? For one prisoner?"

House shrugged. "He likes to look good."

The Major laughed and looked over the note briefly. "Very well, Captain. Of course, we have to make sure you're not spending it all on drink and letting this poor Wilson fellow wander about in rags, don't we?"

House bristled. He didn't like the patronising tone the Major appeared to have adopted. He tapped the cane several times on the wooden floor impatiently. The Major leaned forward and addressed Wilson.

"Well now, stout fellow – how are you?"

House watched Wilson raise his head to meet the Major's gaze and smile with just the right tint of bashfulness. Calculating bastard, House thought approvingly.

"Very well, thank you sir."

"Get along with the Captain here all right, do you?"

"Tolerably well, sir. I'm mighty grateful to him for all his trouble."

"Wonderful, wonderful. Well, I'll have it fetched for you now. Edwards!" he called through the open door, summoning the guard. "Bring ten dollars from the vault. Captain," he spoke to House again, Edwards having disappeared into the next room with an obedient nod. "If you would sign here in receipt...Thank you."

They stepped out onto the street, ten dollars in silver coin in House's hands. He handed eight of them to Wilson.

"Take these back with you. I'm going out for a while. Don't wait up."

"Thanks, but I wasn't planning on it," Wilson grinned and pocketed the money, but House could sense his concern. "Where you going?"

"A bad place that your mother would detest, Jim. Go home," House finished the sentence quickly, feeling pain begin to cut into the words. He bit the inside of his cheek stoically until Wilson shrugged and headed down the street, then gasped and reached for his laudanum bottle.

Upon his return to the boarding house, Wilson stowed the money away in a drawer and amused himself as best he could. He wrote a letter, ate all of House's hardtack and read through one of House's medical volumes. Finding himself at a loose end, he climbed into bed before the clock had struck ten.

Wilson's slumber was broken by a sharp rally of knocks on the door. For a moment, he wondered vaguely where the sound came from, his mind pleasantly clouded with sleep. A rough call, muffled by the door's thick wood, brought him to his senses. He twitched, opened his eyes and sat up with a start.

"Anyone in there?"

"Yes sir, there is," Wilson called in reply, standing up and groping clumsily for a shirt. "Who's there?" He looked at House's watch, which he had left on the table. It read five past two. His stomach knotted suddenly as he walked to the door. A call this late was always, in his experience, bad news.

"Sergeant Poole and Corporal Elliot, Union Army. Open up in there."

"Right away," Wilson answered, his eyes swivelling in search for House's uniform belt, which was draped over the back of a chair. Wilson loosed House's pistol from its holster and held it in his left hand, hidden behind the door as he opened it to reveal his visitors. Two Union men, one tall with thinning blond hair and a pencil moustache, the other stocky and red-haired. The blond soldier, with the insignia of a sergeant on his uniform, laid a gloved hand on Wilson's chest and pushed him back into the room. He then stepped in himself and looked around carefully.

"All right, Corporal Elliot," Poole nodded, and his comrade joined him in the room. Elliot glanced at Wilson.

"He's holding a pistol, Sergeant Poole!"

"I'll put it down," Wilson hastily interjected, tossing it onto the bedspread. "Seemed like a useful thing to have for calls at this hour, is all. What's the matter?"

Poole held out his hand and Elliot placed a scrap of paper on it. Poole held the paper out at arm's length and consulted it.

"Are you James Wilson?" he said, at length. Elliot lit the lamp and Wilson blinked in the light.

"Yes sir, I am. What's the matter?" Wilson asked, wondering if he was ever going to be answered. Poole blinked pointedly at him, then held up the scrap of paper. Wilson screwed up his sore, sleepy eyes and tried to make out the neat black handwriting inked in small letters across it. He made out his name, then something else.

"This piece of paper," Poole loudly informed Wilson, as Elliot warmed his hands over the lamp behind them, "was found in the pocket of one Captain Gregory House. On it was written your name and the name of this hotel."

Wilson's eyes widened and he suddenly felt wide awake. "Is he all right?" he said, a mental image of the paper being plucked from House's limp and lifeless body filling his head. Poole waved a dismissive hand.

"He's alive, if that's what you mean."

"Well, no. I mean, is he all right? Where is he?"

Elliot snickered, rubbed his hands and re-extended them over the lamp, which cast its flickering shadows across the room. Wilson glared at him. Poole tucked the piece of paper into his jacket.

"He's in the jailhouse. A party of soldiers was sent out to bust an opium den run by a pair of Chinamen downtown a few hours ago. They caught him there and brought him to the station."

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes. His dread had been replaced by a something worse. He was relieved to know that House wasn't dead or direly injured, but this turn of events was not exactly something he'd imagined.

"Why are you here?" he asked after a few deep breaths. "I thought you usually kept prisoners overnight."

"Usually, yes!" Elliot chuckled, roughly. "But the sonofabitch won't shut up! He's crazy with opium and drink. Normally, we'd just slap him around until he shut up."

"But we felt that it wouldn't be fitting, him being an officer." Poole spoke with an expression which suggested that if he were in charge, House would be a boot-cleaning private.

"Besides," Elliot added, "the men that picked him up had already given him the works. Until they realised he was a cripple, of course."

"In the circumstances, I felt that perhaps you might be able to take him away. If I hear him start singing one more time, my deeds will not be upon my head," Poole warned.

"What did he do?"

"Enough to keep any other guy in jail for at least six months, but an officer gets the kid glove treatment. Public disorder and striking a United States soldier."

"Did he? Oh God..." Wilson muttered, picking his jacket up from the floor and slipping it on. As he searched for his shoes, Poole frowned at him.

"You're not from the North. What is your relationship to this man?"

Wilson smiled ruefully. "I'm his prisoner."

Poole and Elliot led him silently through the cold streets to the jailhouse. A few drunks skulked on corners, a few beggars snored in doorways, but otherwise the town was deserted. Poole halted them outside a square wooden building on a corner and called "Guard" softly. A soldier sitting on a bench just by the door emerged from the shadows and showed them in. As the door opened and a pool of light fell across them, Wilson could clearly hear the strains of a song coming from within. He rolled his eyes as he realised that he knew the voice.

Inside the jailhouse was a short hallway with three barred cells on either side. At the end of the hall, past the cells, was a table on which stood a lantern struggling to illuminate the entire room and the remnants of a card game. A soldier was sitting in one of the chairs around the table and smoking a pipe. Wilson stood at the other end of the hall, hearing Elliot shutting and locking the heavy wooden front door behind him, and took in the scene.

"Geary, Geary!" groaned a voice from one of the cells. "Give me a puff, Geary!"

"Close your head, Michael, and call me sir, damn you!" the soldier Geary spat back, raising the blackjack he held in his hand threateningly. Poole and Elliot marched swiftly down the hall to the table, not looking at the cells at their sides as they passed. Wilson, his heartbeat rapid and his mouth dry, began to walk hesitantly after them. A drunk rushed the bars of his cell and clattered against them with an impact that made Wilson start so violently that he almost tripped. Corporal Elliot snickered.

He could hear the song clearly now, coming from the last cell on the right. It was a slow, dirge-like tune, sung with mournful abandon.

"Ich hatt' einen Kameraden, Einen bessern findst du nit, Die Trommel schlug zum-"

"Quiet in there! I won't tell you again!" Geary waved the blackjack with menace. House was silent for approximately four fifths of a second before continuing.

"Streite,...Er ging an meiner Seite... In gleichem Schritt und Tritt."

Wilson approached the cell tentatively, each step revealing more of it and its occupant. Along the back wall of the cell ran a bench and it was on this that House lay. His head and shoulders were leaned against the wall closest to Wilson, his body extending towards the opposite wall. His left arm was bent across the top his head limply, the other was draped over his leg.

"Eine Kugel kam geflogen...Gilt's mir oder gilt es dir?"

From here, Wilson was able to see House but House had not yet noticed him. He halted, a look of horror on his face. There was blood, some dark and dry, some fresh and garish red, covering most of his face in broad smears and dripping down onto his collar. A bruise was already purpling around his right eye. His voice was thick with drunken emotion as he droned his song with throaty pronunciation.

Poole clattered his pistol along the bars loudly.

"Shut your damned mouth! We've brought your buddy down here to take you home."

House shut up and swung his head leftwards, his glassy eyes taking in Wilson, who hovered uncertainly by the bars. The soldier Geary rattled a hoop of keys at his side as he approached the cell's lock.

"Oh Wilson, it's you...they said they brought my buddy down here, you damnable Southron, you," he mumbled. "You fellers met Wilson, then? The Alabama Kid..." he trailed off. "'Oh, I come from Alabama with my banjo on my knee,'" he began to sing again, but stopped as the bars slid away across the door of the cell and disappeared.

"Ha," House said in a satisfied tone of voice. "Wonderful. I'll just grab my cane and we'll get out of here," he announced, twitching a leg and falling spectacularly from the bench onto the floor. He lay on his front with his face turned a little towards Wilson and the soldiers and he remained there, motionless, until Geary stepped aside, allowing Wilson to hurry into the cell. A red, frothy mixture of blood and saliva was seeping from between House's lips and onto the concrete floor, and his eyes were drowsily shut. Wilson crouched down by House's side and shook his shoulder. He burbled incoherently for a few moments, his bruised and bloody face twitching, then one eye opened wide and stared at Wilson. In an exaggerated whisper, he said, "Four. I counted 'em."

"Did you?" Wilson said absently, wondering what he meant. "Come on, let's get up."

He hitched an arm around House's back and helped him get to his feet. He picked up the cane and placed it in House's hand, then steered him gently towards the open cell door. Corporal Elliot snorted in amusement as House lurched suddenly against the wall and had to be straightened and re-aligned. Wilson didn't speak to any of the men as he wiped the blood from House's nose and led him slowly out of the jailhouse.

House was singing again.

"Jimmy crack corn and I don' care. Jimmy crack corn and I don' care...Hey, Jimmy," he broke off, tugging urgently at Wilson's shoulder. They were proceeding slowly along the wooden sidewalk, under the unlit porch lamps and past closed doors.

"What?" Wilson whispered, his eyes on the way ahead cautiously.

"Four, I counted. Four of 'em."

"Right you are," Wilson muttered. "Walk a little straighter, can't you? You're hanging off me like an anchor."

"Don't pretend you don't like it."

Wilson couldn't help but smile, despite his anger At the moment, he was focussed solely on making it back to their hotel room, but already he was starting to feel the bitterness welling inside him. This man, whom he had come to regard as a friend, who repulsed and fascinated him, who had been his sole companion over this long journey, had deceived him. As they dragged themselves closer to their destination, it all began to slide into place. Wilson remembered every instance where House had disappeared for hours at a stretch, every brazen excuse.

They crossed the silent square and Wilson left House on the porch while he tapped the door softly until the houseboy answered.

"Who's there?"

"It's Wilson and Captain House. We're staying here."

"Yes sir, I remember sir." The door clicked open and the boy held it, watching with wide eyes as Wilson supported House through, shaking and sweating under the weight. Together, Wilson and the boy managed to drag him upstairs and into their room, where Wilson tossed the child a nickel and shut the door. He took a deep breath, then steered House onto the bed and sat him down. Wilson soaked an old cravat of House's in water and drew a chair to the bed. Sitting on this, opposite House, he began to wipe the blood from his face.

"Quit that!" House snapped. "I can do it myself."

Wilson ignored him and his subsequent hisses of pain. There was a constant trickle of blood from his mouth and nose, and his eye was swelling darkly. Wilson could imagine how easy it would have been for the soldiers to get hold of House, unable to run.

"They did a good job on you. What did you do when they hit you?"

"I counted. Know how many I counted, Wilson?"

Wilson chuckled. "Four?"

House nodded and smiled a cunning smile, showing the bloody interior of his mouth. He slowly raised his clenched left fist, extended it towards Wilson and let his long, red-stained fingers uncurl.

On his palm lay four large white teeth.


	8. Fresh Wounds

**A/N:** I am eternally sorry to anyone who finds this chapter boring. I rather like it, and it was one of the first sections I thought of when I was outlining the story, but then I have a high threshold for tolerating boring stuff (as does anyone else who has ever manually uploaded a Huddy mood theme). This is not a thrills-and-spills like escapade of yesterchapter, more a wind-down from the opium-smoking tooth-crunchery and a perilous leap into Character Exposition Gorge. Thanks again to my super-fast and grammatically sound beta, **maineac**.

Over the course of their journey, Wilson had gotten into a morning routine. He would wake, usually quite early, and pull himself onto his feet. He would mix House's medicine carefully and set it down by the sleeping soldier's head. If they were out in the open, he would build a small fire and set the coffee boiling. By the time it was done, House was usually by the fireside, having thrown the laudanum down his throat with the merest flicker of a grimace. Wilson silently poured their coffees and added one sugar to House, stirred it gently and handed it over. Some days Wilson would get nothing in the way of recognition, some days just a flash of a grateful smile. He didn't mind anyway, it was just his nature to do things for people, to keep the peace.

But this morning was different. This morning Wilson lay still in his warm bed, his eyes gently closed and ignored his established routine. No more words had passed between himself and House since he had lain the older man down upon the sofa after cleaning his wounds, thrown a blanket over him and retired to bed. This morning, Wilson thought, still seething with hurt and anger, House could fix his own damn medicine. He lay there, listening to the sounds of House's heavy breathing until he snorted and Wilson heard the sound of the blanket falling to the floor. Then there was the sound of the couch creaking as House sat up and his low groans. Wilson half-opened an eye briefly, seeing House sitting on the edge of the sofa with his head in his hands, then closed it again. After a few minutes, he heard House's bare feet thudding slowly around the room. He uttered hisses and moans as he stumbled around the room, bumping into furniture. He clumsily opened and closed drawers, and Wilson cringed as something shattered to the floor, followed by the low scrunch of something papery. He was looking for his medicine, Wilson realised. He must have found it, for there came the sound of a glass bottle neck hitting the rim of a glass repeatedly, as if the hand that held it trembled, then a gulp. The bottle clunked down on a hard surface and Wilson heard House limp over to the door and into the hall, presumably headed for the washroom a few doors up.

As soon as he was gone, Wilson got up and began readying himself. He washed and dressed, then began packing away all their effects into the saddlebags. He worked rhythmically, trying not to think about anything in particular, concentrating on picking up articles of clothing and stowing them away. His mental vacuum faltered for a moment when he saw a dried spatter of blood near the sofa, a relic of the previous night, but for the most part he succeeded admirably. He worked fast and was, about to add a few last items to the baggage when House re-entered. House's voice, somewhat rough from a night spent drinking spirits, called out, making Wilson freeze with his spare shirt still in his hand.

"And when you're done with the housework, you can start the breakfast."

The words were of his usual mocking variety, but when Wilson looked up at him he shifted his gaze to the floor as if ashamed.

House stood unsteadily in the doorway. His face was a swollen mass of purple and black bruising, darkest around the left eye and the right cheek. He held his mouth open awkwardly; obviously it was too sore to close, and so his jaw hung down, giving him a somewhat comatose appearance. He had washed most of the blood from his face, but some of the less bruised patches around his face still retained an unpleasant pale orange hue. When he walked he did so extremely heavily, his entire face creasing in suppressed pain with every small movement. His eyes were bleary and staring. He looked terrible, worse than Wilson had ever seen anyone look except the dead.

"Let's get out of here while it's early," House said, thickly through a swollen mouth. "What's the time?"

"Five thirty," Wilson replied with a brief glance at his pocket watch. "How are you feeling?"

"Like a rabbit in a fox den. Let's go."

It was a cool, clear morning. The sky was still paling, an undecided grey, and Wilson couldn't predict what the weather would be like as the day drew on. They rode around the enormous expanses of water all morning in near silence. Wilson nibbled on hardtack and didn't offer House any. He knew it was far too painful for him to eat.

The sun didn't rise blazing and bright as it had for the past few days. The sky became darker and eventually the heavens opened and drenched them with hard, heavy raindrops. The water splattered on the greenery on either side of them and plopped into the lake-water. House turned his face upward and let the rain run in rivulets over the lumps and swellings. His eyes were closed and he looked almost peaceful. Wilson, whose mule had been leading for the first time, pulled back to keep even with House. He cleared his throat softly.

"About last night..."

"You're not getting an apology," House said quickly, without opening his eyes. His voice was still distorted, but Wilson thought he could detect a hint of remorse in it.

"I know." Wilson smiled to himself. "I just...I don't understand, House. I want to understand why you're doing this to yourself, but I just can't."

House slowly opened his eyes and looked across at Wilson. "I'm in pain. And now," he grinned somewhat ghoulishly, "I'm ugly and in pain."

Wilson shrugged awkwardly and tried again. "I don't want an apology. I just want to know."

"Know what?"

"Anything. Something that will help me out. Can I ask you a question?"

House rolled his eyes. Seeing that Wilson still regarded him expectantly, he sighed. "One question, that's it."

Wilson looked ahead at the path they were on and kept looking for several minutes, feeling the droplets patter down on the top of his kepi. The quiet whooshing of the rainwater filled the otherwise empty silence. Wilson thought intensely, trying to work out which question would help him the most. Then he nodded resolutely and looked over at House.

"I want to know about the divorce."

House's eyes widened and his bloodied mouth grimaced. "Seriously?"

"Yes."

"Oh, now why d'you want to know about that?"

Wilson shrugged. "I get to ask the question, remember?"

There was another long silence. House tenderly traced his fingers down his battered face, flinching under even that light touch. Wilson didn't prompt him, knowing that an answer would come in good time. The surgeon gently hooked his forefinger inside his mouth and touched his raw bleeding gums and the torn tooth sockets. The contact caused him to start violently, his eyes watering, and expel a mouthful of bloody saliva onto the wet grass. Wilson winced to see his pain and tried to keep his eyes fixed ahead. House's voice seemed to begin out of nowhere.

"We were married seven years ago. We divorced two years ago. Is that enough?"

"No," Wilson said firmly. "I picked your goddamned teeth off the floor and put you to bed."

"Right," House chuckled humourlessly. "You've earned this. I forgot. She went back to her parents in Alabama. I heard she remarried last year, a Confederate sergeant."

Wilson nodded, turned the information over in his mind. There was one last thing he wanted to know. "Why? Why did you divorce?"

"I didn't like the way she cooked steak."

Wilson looked expectantly at House, but the captain seemed to have closed the conversation. Wilson gave a small shrug and concentrated on the way ahead once more. The rain grew harder and he shuddered under its incessant drumming. Wilson began to think of other things, to mentally dictate a letter home, to consider what he would prepare for them to eat that evening. His shoulders, previously stiff and tight, reflecting the tension that made him so uneasy, relaxed and he slumped forward comfortably in his saddle. It was almost half an hour of thoughtful silence later that House's voice spoke suddenly once more, cutting softly through the dull patter of rain.

"There was a baby. Samuel. It died."

Wilson looked over quickly. House spoke with simple composure, stating the fact as though he were talking about the weather or a baseball game.

"Oh," Wilson wasn't sure what else to say. "I'm sorry. How old w-"

"Three days."

"I'm-"

"Yeah, you're sorry. I get it. Let's have something to eat."

They dismounted and ate, sitting in a dry patch under a large tree. Wilson buttered some cornbread and handed it to House, who looked at it, gently probed his mouth with it, wincing and clicking in frustration. Finally, with a slight smile of satisfaction, he poured water from his canteen over the bread and began feeding himself the pale mush in small lumps. Wilson watched him sympathetically.

"My turn for a question, right?" House demanded as he swallowed a small mouthful of soaked bread. Wilson shrugged.

"Sure, if you want."

"Who's Johnny?"

Wilson's face tautened. "What?"

"Johnny. Your last letter to your mother – you told her not to worry about Johnny. You write to her about Michael all the time, but never this Johnny before."

"You oughtn't to read my letters," Wilson muttered. House cocked an uncaring eyebrow. Wilson remembered what he had told him a few minutes earlier and decided to honour him with his trust. "He's my other brother. He fought at Manassas – just didn't come back. Haven't found a body, haven't had word from him. He's just disappeared. My mother's sick with worry. My father..." He chuckled bitterly. "Says he'd rather Johnny was dead than a deserter."

"You didn't mention him before."

"There..." Wilson shifted on the ground. "There wasn't any point. Can we talk about something else?"

House shrugged, rubbing his hand over his leg and shivering slightly. The rain was still cold and insistent, a constant backdrop like the hum of a trapped fly in a sticky summer room or the clinking hammers of a chain gang. Wilson watched House, who had obviously drifted off into his own mind. His eyes, made a less brilliant blue by the drab shrubbery behind him, were staring steadily at the sludgy path of pale, sickly mud that cut through the dripping woodland. He had not donned his kepi today, presumably to let the rain spatter his beaten face, and the rain had plastered his hair down flat to his skull. Wilson could see the patches of thinning hair, where the water-darkened brown gave way to the paler flesh tone beneath. A droplet hit Wilson square on the bridge of his nose and dripped off the end miserably. House's expression was still dreamy and absent, and Wilson felt a stab of regret.

"I'm sorry I asked earlier...," he began. House didn't adjust his eyes or make any indication of having heard. Wilson wasn't entirely sure if he was being ignored or whether House was really that distracted. "I'm afeard I might have harrowed up things that ought to've stayed where they was. Were," he corrected his grammar awkwardly.

"The money they spend putting you crackers through college is wasted," House said scornfully.

"It's only you Yankees that reckon so," Wilson retorted. "If I was back in my own diggings, I'd sound near on refined. My pa, he tells me I talk too fancy. Says I ought to remember where I come from."

"And what do you say?"

"I say...hell with him. You can't please ever'one. Everyone, I mean. Damn it," Wilson cursed. House sniggered and Wilson's head shot up to stare. He hadn't heard House laugh for a week, not counting drunken cackles. The sound seemed to grip Wilson in his chest. He smiled, relieved.

"Mighty grist of rain," Wilson stated, nodding towards the still-drizzling sky.

"Right," said House distractedly. He craned his head up towards the sky as if searching for somewhere to focus his sight that wasn't near Wilson. He took a long breath and Wilson saw his Adam's apple swell then recede. "But about last night," House said. "I'm...grateful."

Wilson looked at him, a happy and satisfied smile beginning to form on his face. House shifted uncomfortably and continued in a low voice.

"Are we all right?"

"Sure." Wilson's grin now spread, lifting his entire face. "We're all right. Just don't do it again. I don't want to have to spoon-feed you bread-mush for the rest of the journey."

House did not smile, but the corner of his swollen lip twitched in a manner that could have been described as an indication of pleasure. It was enough for Wilson, who didn't care if he was appreciated or not. He had to help people. It was his nature.


	9. Quarantine

A/N: This is the penultimate chapter, guys. It's been crazy fun, but...hey, they gotta get to Chicago sometime, right? So if there's any questions anyone wants to ask about anything at all to do with the fic, this is the time. Probably no-one, but at least I offered :D

Renewed thanks to the wonderful **maineac, **my beta.

Wilson didn't know that they were entering Illinois until House informed him of the fact. He told him that they were only twenty minutes away from the Ohio River, and that they would be crossing it with a platoon of soldiers. Half an hour later, they crested a hill which had seemed no more than a slight slope as they ascended. Yet when they finally reached the top, he gaped at the sight before him. The Ohio River spread, at least fifty feet below them, as far as the eye could see. The sun, free in a cloudless sky, shone in wide swathes of brilliance on the calm greenish water. A paddle steamer was chugging along directly below them, its blue-painted hull carving strong divides through the water. There were a few tiny cabins on the near bank next to a small wooden dock, to which was tied a long, iron-andcanvas-covered barge. Lying or sitting on the grass around the cabins and on the dark, water-splashed wood of the dock were a collection of Union soldiers, perhaps fifty in all. Two men sat a little apart from the others, under an oak tree with their horses tethered to the branches. One wore the gleaming insignia of an officer, although at this distance, Wilson could not make out the rank. A fire burned, surrounded by men with homemade skewers cooking pieces of meat. Wilson felt his stomach splutter and gurgle with hunger at the rich smell that floated up to them.

House shoved fingers into the corners of his mouth and let out a piercing whistle. All soldiers who were not sleeping, and several who were, started and stared up. A couple grabbed briefly for their rifles, until their eyes adjusted to the sunlight around the hill's crest and they recognized the intruders as allies.

"Hey there!" one officer shouted. "Come on down! You the men we're taking across? Captain House and his charge?"

"Yeah," House called back, jerking on the reins of his mule and setting it down the steep hill at a carelessly brisk pace, his strong arms straining to keep upright. Wilson followed cautiously. He kept his eyes on the soft ground below his mount, only looking up when a sudden cry of recognition rang out.

"Say, that ain't Gregory House, is it?" the officer beneath the tree got to his feet and rushed towards them. He was tall, a little less than House, perhaps; with hair as black and slick as oil and a thin white scar across his neck that became visible as he came closer. He thrust out a hand, and to Wilson's surprise, House leant down from his mule and shook it, if a little grudgingly. Wilson could see that the man was a Lieutenant. He looked at Wilson and smiled in a way that made him slightly uncomfortable. He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and consulted it.

"Is this James Wilson?' he asked. "Looks more like your baby brother, House."

"This isn't my brother, he's my backward country cousin," House replied through teeth firmly gritted as he slowly descended to the ground. Wilson dropped down onto the ground and stretched out his stiff arms. The Lieutenant was still smiling.

"Now you're here, we'll be going soon. The train leaves in an hour and a half."

Wilson cleared his throat softly. "Will it be taking us all the way to Chicago?"

"Yes," the Lieutenant answered. "But we've got to take a little detour to pick up another platoon, so we won't be in Chicago for four days. Captain House will be with myself and Sergeant Harmsworth in a passenger car which has been reserved for us. You'll be riding in a cattle car with the rest of the enlisted men. There will be three stops a day for you to get out and make yourselves something to eat. The officers will dine with the regular passengers in the dining car."

"Thank you," Wilson muttered once this information had been revealed. As the three men walked towards the troops, they got hastily to their feet and saluted stiffly. It seemed strange to Wilson, seeing House as he was in normal life – an officer, treated with due reverence by all. House didn't seem to acknowledge them.

"Got any men who can give me a haircut and still leave me two ears?"

"Sure do. Private Booth, give the Captain a haircut!"

A wiry young man with weather-beaten tanned skin and dark gleaming eyes stepped forward. "Yes, sir," he said, reaching inside his jacket and extracting a small pair of scissors. A soldier behind him pushed forward the empty barrel he had been sitting on and House settled himself onto it.

"You can do him when you're done," House ordered, pointing at Wilson.

"Right you are, sir."

The Private had barely finished trimming Wilson's hair when the order came to board the craft. The crossing of the Ohio took twenty minutes. Wilson stood out near the bow, feeling the air brush his freshly cut hair and thinking about what fate awaited him. House was stumping bad-naturedly around the deck, between rows of seated or slouching men, hissing insults and jabbing his cane at any who blocked his erratic course. Wilson watched him absently for a few minutes until he sensed a presence at his side and turned to see the Lieutenant standing there.

"How are you, young man?"

"I'm very well, sir," Wilson replied in a slightly glum tone, leaning his bare forearms against the warm metal of the bow and staring at the placid river water, hearing it slap gently against the sides of the boat. House, with that peculiar knack for breaking up conversation, was already propelling himself towards them.

"George," he muttered, jerking his chin up to attract the officer's attention. "Wanted to have a word with you."

"Sure, pleased to. Privately?" the Lieutenant replied, lowering his voice and glancing quickly at Wilson.

"No need. I just came to tell you that Wilson will be eating with us on the train. Bastard's been trying to shake me ever since Tennessee. Had to get this out," House patted the heavy revolver at his waist, "a couple of times just to keep him still. Have a pair of troops accompany him to the dining car for his meals."

Wilson wasn't stupid enough to question House's speech or even look surprised. He merely affixed a suitably rebellious expression to his face. The Lieutenant shrugged.

"Right you are, Cap'n," he said, saluting lazily, and drifted away. Wilson raised an eyebrow.

"Well, I suppose it was only a matter of time before you had to come clean," he said. "After all, I could only make your life living hell for so long with my incorrigible attempts at escape."

House leaned his back against the bow and crossed his arms over his unbuttoned blue jacket. For a moment he was silent.

"You've lost a lot of weight since we started out," he said quietly. "Camp Douglas is a hellhole. I suggest you fill up."

He straightened up and headed back across deck. Wilson smiled as he watched him, but the smile soon faded. He _had_ lost weight, and House had only served to remind him what was in store. For the first time, Wilson felt himself forcing back feelings of dread as visions of imprisonment flooded into his mind, visions he had tried so hard to avoid.

When they disembarked, House commandeered the Lieutenant's horse for himself, relegating his subordinate to the shaky mule beside Wilson. It was only a short distance across rolling fields before they hit town and came to a straggling halt at the station.

The train was already waiting in the sidings. The back of the cattle car was down, making a ramp that led into the empty metal car. The men slowly tramped up, their boots thumping metallically on the thin iron. Twenty-five men arranged themselves into each of the two cars. Wilson found himself a spot against a wall and slouched down. The sun was beginning to set now. He looked at House, who stood with the other two officers at the foot of the ramp. The Captain snorted.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Wilson," he grinned. "I'm off for a nice steak."

The first two days dragged by. The cattle car was sweltering and cramped, and juddered constantly from side to side, throwing the men against each other sharply. The platoon had been battling insidious guerrilla fighters in southern Kentucky for four months and were dispirited and too exhausted to even talk for the majority of the time. They asked Wilson few questions and seemed to bear him no resentment. They simply wanted to rest their weary bodies without disturbance. As a result, a bored Wilson spent most of the day with his face pressed to the thin, head-high gap in the car, watching the landscape glide past. When two of the troops marched him down to the officer's compartment at dinner time, House took one look at him and let out a peal of derisive laughter. Wilson was bemused until the Lieutenant held up a looking glass and Wilson saw a thick strip of sunburnt red skin that stretched from ear to ear across his face. The officer's car was spacious and well furnished. Each of the three officers had a small cabin to himself, and the rest of the car was a communal area with comfortable seats and a newspaper table, more like a living room than a train carriage. The air was filled with rich smoke from Sergeant Harmsworth's cigar, giving the compartment a warm, comforting feeling that made it extremely welcoming.

Back in the cattle car, he started to crave mealtimes, not simply because he was hungry, but because they were the only break from the monotony of the cattle car. The food in the dining car was excellent: hearty, wholesome meals that made him feel rejuvenated. After dinner, Wilson would stay for a few minutes and chat with House, then be marched back to the cattle car. House seemed to be keeping himself to himself; whenever Wilson arrived he was sitting in a corner of the officer's compartment with a book or newspaper. Once, he was smoking a cigar, something Wilson had never seen him do before. All in all, he seemed to be more at ease than Wilson had ever seen him.

When the soldiers found out that Wilson had been to medical school, after a chance comment just before lunchtime on the second day, they suddenly took a greater interest in him. Many of them were nursing small ailments and were happy to relate their tales of woe to a sympathetic Wilson. They were grateful for his advice and for his attempts when they halted at a large town to procure some remedies for them.

On the third day, he was thoroughly miserable. The burnt banner across his face was peeling, much to House's amusement; he was bored, tired and feeling a little chilly and nauseous. He lay flat on his back on the floor, feeling like a slave in a cargo hold as the shuddering car rolled him into the men on either side. Some were playing cards on a small patch of free space, others read their Bibles or just sat staring at the thin metal walls. At lunch, he didn't feel like eating much. House had interrogated him, but he had denied any illness, explaining his lack of appetite as travel sickness. By dinner, he felt hot and clammy, and when the two soldiers were marching him through the long grass by the railroad to the officer's car he slumped to his knees and was sick, feeling his throat burn and the sun hard on the back of his head. They patted his shoulder, wiped his mouth on their handkerchiefs and helped him up.

House was sitting in the corner of the car, his leg propped up on a stool. He had a newspaper spread over his lap and was wearing a pair of spectacles on the end of his nose.

"Wilson ain't been well," one of the soldiers supporting the prisoner up the metal steps and into the carriage explained. "He just emptied his guts outside."

House looked at the three men over the top of his glasses, and then drew them off of his face altogether. He sighed pointedly and jabbed the glasses at the chair opposite him.

"Dump him there. Bring our food down from the dining car," he ordered brusquely. The two soldiers lowered Wilson into the chair and departed. Wilson rubbed a hand across his burning forehead and swallowed hard, trying to clear the bitter taste of vomit from his mouth. He met House's gaze.

"I'm fine. It's probably just this food. Too rich for me after living on cornbread and beans all this time."

House raised a doubtful eyebrow. "I'm fine," he said, gesturing to himself. "I've been eating the same as you."

"Yeah, I understand," Wilson said through a groan. "You've got a rock-hard constitution. Nothing can harm you. You're an ox in human form, you really are. Could you just save that particular boast for a while? My head feels like the inside of a bell."

"Loosen your shirt collar a little. How long have you felt like this?"

"Since this morning, but only this bad since just after lunch."

Wilson fumbled at his shirt collar wearily and unbuttoned it. House stared at him oddly, and Wilson saw that his piercing eyes were fixed upon his chest. He slowly looked down at himself. A red rash, bright and unmistakeable, spread from his lower neck over his collarbone. He slowly looked up again, wordless horror clear on his flushed face. House nodded grimly.

"Scarlet fever. We're getting off this train. Harmsworth!" he bellowed. Sergeant Harmsworth poked his head out of his cabin.

"Sir?"

"Get Lieutenant Ackley and then have some men unload our mounts and kit. Wilson's got scarlet fever and we've got to leave right now, before it spreads through the entire platoon." Harmsworth frowned, opened his mouth to ask a question. "Now!" House barked, sending the Sergeant scampering through the door.

"Have you anything to drink?" Wilson muttered. "I'm mighty thirsty. I'm also starting to have some respiratory problems," he informed House in as calm a tone as he could manage.

House tossed him his canteen and for once Wilson found that it contained nothing stronger than water. He sucked thirstily at the neck until the canteen was dry. "Thank you," he gasped. "House," he whispered after a pause. "Is this going to be bad? Scarlatina Simplex and Anginosa present with the same symptoms. Could you take a closer look?"

"I've had it, by the way," House said as he got to his feet and stepped across to Wilson. He placed a hand on his shoulder to steady himself and placed the other hand on Wilson's jaw. "Open your mouth."

"When'd you have it?" Wilson asked, obeying.

"When I was six."

As House peered into his throat, Wilson started to feel the tightening in his chest. A wave of panic suddenly overwhelmed him and his shoulders heaved. He suppressed a retch, his eyes bugging out. House started talking again, in a steady monotone.

"I didn't really have it badly, but my Ma made my father take me to the doctor's surgery in town. And that was a big deal, because we lived in this log cabin, this tiny place on the river bank, and he had to get the rowing boat out and row us about two hours down the river."

Wilson felt his chest begin to relax and his shoulders slump as House talked, his voice almost hypnotising.

"It was at a place called Fisk Landing, on a little river running off the Ohio. We passed it when we crossed over. Your throat is screaming red – scarlet fever all right. Can't tell anything else," he concluded, leaning back and standing straight. The Lieutenant's voice drifted in from the open air.

"I'm out here. I never had scarlatina, so I'm staying outside. Your mules and saddlebags are waiting for you out here. Listen, Greg – I'm right sorry that we gotta throw you boys off like this, but we can't risk the soldiers' health. I know you understand."

"Sure," House said. "Sacrifice a few for the good of the many. It makes perfect sense. I'd do the same."

He threw Wilson's arm around his shoulder and helped him to the door and down the steps onto the grass by the tracks. The Lieutenant was about twenty yards off, his handkerchief over his mouth. Faces were pressed to the open strip of the cattle car, watching as House and Wilson made their erratic way towards where their mounts waited, at the rear of the train.

"Think you can get up and hold onto the reins?" House asked quietly. Wilson nodded heavily and struggled, with House's help, onto the mule.

"This is a fairly big town," House said as he mounted his own mount with the usually difficulty. "I'm going to trade your mule and pool that money with what I've got left and buy a trap. You won't be able to ride for much longer."

Wilson barely registered that they were moving. House guided both mules and Wilson gazed dully ahead. When they reached town, House helped him dismount and left him sitting on a grass verge on the outskirts. House mounted Wilson's mule and gently slapped the reins.

Wilson fell asleep without really noticing, and awoke to find House rigging his mule to a small pony trap with reins and straps. House had already unpacked the blankets from the saddlebags and spread them over the floor of the trap.

"Come on, you infernal menace," he muttered, putting his arms under Wilson's shoulders and heaving him to his feet. "I'm the cripple here, you know."

Wilson crawled into the trap and immediately curled up on the blankets. He didn't know how far they were from Chicago, but it didn't matter anymore. When you didn't even know if you would be alive in a week, distance became a negligible factor. His last conscious memory was of House sitting down on the bench in front of him and the gentle sound of leather on hide as he sparked the mule into motion.


	10. End

_Optima mors, Parca quae venit acta die_

The best death is that which comes on the day ordained by fate.

– **Propertius**

They only rode a few hours before it grew too dark to go on. They were passing over farmland, and House was forced to halt the trap in the middle of a vast, empty field. The soil below them was hard and black. House sat stiffly on the driver's bench and observed their environs. All around was pitch black, and odd creakings and owl hoots pierced the cold air. House didn't like to acknowledge, even to himself, that he was scared. But why, he finally reasoned, shouldn't he be? Aside from the eeriness of their surroundings, which hardly frightened a country-bred man such as himself, they might at any time be attacked by one of the guerrilla bands that roamed the countryside. He knew from experience how quickly and viciously they could strike.

The night air was so cold and blew so fiercely. It lashed across his body, soon followed by a steadily increasing buffet of rain. He sat hunched on the driver's ledge for quite some time, feeling his leg get colder and colder, and then begin to burn red hot. The wind rose and screamed furiously, bellowing over the landscape. House slowly, painfully, climbed over the back of the driver's bench, his numb hands gripping the soaked wood, and into the cart. He slumped with his back against the low wooden side, his legs drawn up to his chest and his toes just touching Wilson's back, panting. He could barely see Wilson in front of him, but he could feel him breathing. After a minute, House leant forward and pulled one of Wilson's blankets up so that it shielded most of his face. Then he carefully removed another of the blankets and wrapped it around his own shoulders. His knees were almost touching his chin, and his back was rigid against the wooden boards. He fell asleep in that position, and woke up cursing blue murder.

Wilson came to a few times during the next day, sometimes gasping for water or muttering about the cold. House shoved as many medicines into him as he could procure in the little outposts they were passing through, and even went so far as to prepare him some mush, although he drew the line at feeding him.

It had been House's intention to ride through the night, but the mule was spluttering and stumbling by six o'clock. Wilson was still asleep, his face flushed and damp. He was shivering, although wrapped in blankets, and the rash was spreading onto his face. House stopped the trap just outside a small town called Johnston and sat down on the ground with his map spread out in front of him. After this town, there was nothing but a few small settlements between here and Chicago. It was twenty-two miles by his calculations. They could do it in two days, maybe. He got back onto the drivers platform slowly. Now Wilson was out, he didn't feel the need to get into the saddle as quickly and as normally as possible. He stopped the trap again in Johnston, to buy provisions at the General Store and some remedies in the apothecary. The saddlebags from Wilson's mule were now in the trap, providing a pillow of sorts, and now they were joined by a few small bags of beans, corn meal and coffee.

House had always liked silence. When he was a boy, living in this very state, he used to spend hours wandering around the surrounding wilderness on his own. But he hated this half-silence. Every time he began to relax, to listen to the birds and animals flee the rattling trap, he would hear Wilson groan or sigh as if in pain and be disturbed all over again. Towards seven o' clock, as House began to watch out for a place amongst the thin woodland to set up camp, he heard Wilson's voice, rough and low.

"Get me something to drink, will you? I think I'm going to be sick," he muttered. House looked around to see Wilson squinting up at him.

"All right," House said, digging into his pocket for the small bottle he had purchased at the apothecary.

"Thanks," Wilson sighed, letting his head rest, then jerking it back up suddenly. "Is there a bottle of milk under my head?"

"The sun might have soured it," House replied nonchalantly. "What? You might as well be useful for something."

Wilson reached up for the canteen House held out towards him. He took a grateful sip, then spluttered.

"What the hell is this?"

"Water," House replied. "And rhus tox. And a little whiskey."

"Rhus tox, for the nausea," Wilson took a small, tentative gulp. "There's laudanum in here, too, isn't there? I'm not in pain."

House made a dismissive sound. "It's a cure-all. Look what it's done for my disposition. You like grits?"

"I can't eat. I feel like I'm falling down a hole in the desert," Wilson mumbled, laying the canteen down by his side and lowering his upper body back down onto the blankets. "Hey," he said suddenly. "Where will you go after you've got your discharge papers?"

"As far away from the South as is humanely possible without actually being a polar bear."

"Do you live in Chicago?" Wilson persisted.

"Yes, all right? Yes, I have rooms in Chicago. Now add that to your little book of Fun House Facts and go to sleep."

Wilson was asleep five minutes later, when House stopped the trap in a clearing by a small creek and dismounted. The first thing he did was to free the mule, who immediately trotted towards the thin stream of water. Then he picked his saddlebags up from the floor and began throwing various items from them onto the ground. The place had obviously been used before, judging by the blackened circle on the hard brown earth.

By the time he had set up a small fire and a stick tripod to stand over it, the sun was beginning to set. The sky, or what he could see of it through the high canopy of trees, was a rapidly darkening grey.

He half-filled the saucepan with water and suspended it from the tripod. When it began to boil, he added about half of the milk bottle, which he had delicately removed from under Wilson's sweaty hair with an expression approaching disgust, and a handful of the cornmeal. He threw in the tiny amount of salt left wrapped in a scrap of brown paper.

He sat quietly for almost an hour, stirring the sludge. Then he ladled it onto his tin plate and set it down by the fireside. He tried to rouse Wilson, to get him to drink some milk, but he just mumbled and turned away. Eventually, House shrugged resignedly and sat down to eat his grits.

After he was done, he set some coffee up to boil and drifted into a kind of stupor, watching the darkening forest around them and the firelight throwing crazy shadows across the clearing. Wilson's groans grew more frequent, until House was getting up to dampen his forehead every quarter of an hour or so. At around eight o'clock, he finally seemed to fall into a more peaceful sleep and House sat still and dreamy, inhaling the scent of a third cup boiling coffee and the wood-smoke in front of him. He had been monitoring Wilson's state every time he was forced to get up and wipe the sweat from his face, and he was concerned not a little. He was annoyed with himself for not having come up with a confident prognosis, and he still couldn't tell whether Wilson would pull through.

He was seizing up, getting numb from sitting on the hard ground. His leg, which he had been too distracted to notice as much as usual, was now crying out for relief. He reached for the glass bottle in his pocket and then unscrewed his flask. He took a swig of laudanum, then followed it with a few gulps of whiskey as soon as possible. He shook his head violently from side to side and grimaced as the mixture burned a path to his stomach.

When the laudanum began to take effect, he pulled one of the blankets Wilson had kicked aside down from the cart and wrapped himself in it, lying curled, as tightly as he could comfortably manage, by the diminishing fire. The crackling flames and the eerie calls of night-birds lulled him to sleep, his arms wrapped around his cane as though it were a good luck charm.

"House!"

The voice, a low hiss, woke him slowly rather than with a start. He slowly turned around and looked up at the cart. The fire was nothing more than bitter-smelling embers now, but the moon was directly above them and shone full through the canopy of trees and made the clearing a ghostly white.

He sat up and reached for his jacket. Wilson was leaning over the side of the cart, his hands holding tightly to the side, his arms stiff and his back arched, face angled up and made bone-white by the moonbeams falling over it. His eyes were wide open and staring, but House knew immediately from his poise and glazed expression that he was not really awake. He was delirious.

"What?" House asked softly, getting to his feet and wrapping the jacket around himself. It was bitter cold now, a chill wind streaking through the trees and making him shiver.

"I'm boiling, House. I'm burning up," Wilson said. Even though House knew he was not really conscious, his voice was so clear and awake that it disconcerted him. He touched the back of his hand lightly to Wilson's forehead, and he bucked, uttering a cry and arching even more rigidly. One hand reached up and began to pull at his collar frantically.

"I'm so hot, I think I'm going to die," he gasped, tearing off his shirt and standing up on the floor of the cart. The red rash now covered his chest and back, as well as his neck, and was springing up on his cheeks.

"It's two o'clock in the morning. It's freezing, buddy," House said absently. "Here, take some laudanum."

House held out the bottle and Wilson bent down and allowed him to drop some of the bitter liquid into his mouth. After a minute or two, he slowly lowered himself down onto the wooden boards again, slouching limply against the side of the cart as if drained. His eyes fell closed and he slumped onto the floor.

House watched him, his eyes heavy and bloodshot yet determinedly open, for hours, until the sky began to pale. Sitting by his side, he watched Wilson struggle and sigh through the night, listened to his feverish, jumbled rambling and felt a sweating palm clutch at his arm countless times.

Then, finally, as the jet black sky cooled to slate grey and the very first birds began to sound, House saw Wilson utter a soft cry and then lie still. His face became peaceful and the anxious lines on his brow smoothened. House closed his eyes for a moment, and then half-smiled.

Colonel Ashworth looked up from his desk as a rap sounded on the door.

"Yes?"

"A Captain House to see you, Colonel," announced the young soldier in the doorway. The Colonel frowned, then flicked through the papers on his desk. Finding nothing therein to satisfy him, he pulled open a desk drawer and began examining its contents. The young soldier stood patiently until the Colonel smiled and withdrew a sheet of paper. He studied it for a few moments.

"Ah, yes. Show him in."

"Very good, Colonel."

Colonel Ashworth watched the young man, his nephew by marriage, slip away, then turned his attention to his office window. From it, he was not troubled with the unpleasant view of the prisoners' barracks, with all its filth and squalor. Instead, he could see the North end of the camp, where Union recruits were housed and trained. Every morning, noon and night he could swivel his head from his work and watch a battalion being drilled round and round the parade square. It was a gratifying sight, but he could not pretend he was untroubled by the thought of what he could not see. Every day, it seemed that more and more prisoners were dying, from typhoid, from cholera, and most recently from dysentery. The smell had been so repulsive and nauseating a few weeks before that he and the other officers had had to relocate their headquarters to the city. He felt a swell of pity for the new arrival this Captain was bringing with him.

"Captain House, sir," the young soldier announced before disappearing again. In the Colonel's doorway stood a tall, unshaven, slovenly figure in a filthy and mud-stained uniform that reeked of damp, leaning heavily on a gnarled cane. He wore nothing on his head, had several buttons loose, and was altogether a disgrace. And yet something in his face told the Colonel not to comment on his appearance.

"Come in, sit down, Captain."

"Thanks," House muttered, edging into the room and standing before the desk with his eyes on the floor. He looked briefly at the seat offered him, then looked away again.

"You were entrusted with fetching up a prisoner. A..." the Colonel glanced down at the paper before him, "James Wilson. Where is he?"

House slowly raised his head, and in his face was a marked strain. "He isn't here."

"Escaped?" the Colonel questioned. House looked swiftly from side to side and tapped his cane twice on the floorboards as if extremely ill at ease. The Colonel prepared to repeat his question gently. He was compassionate, and felt sorry for this broken man before him, who had clearly suffered physically for his country and was now plainly not in good mental condition. As he opened his mouth, the Captain finally spoke.

"He's dead, sir. He died this morning."

The Colonel blinked, and then nodded sadly. "I'm sorry to hear it. From what malady?"

"Scarlet fever," House replied quietly, lowering his eyes again.

"Ah. Where...where is the...uh...the body?"

"Out'n the woods," House muttered. "I buried him."

The Colonel looked at the dark patches of mud on the man's trouser knees and nodded once more. "All right, Captain. I'd better write to his commanding officer, have word sent to the family."

"I'll do it," House said decidedly. The Colonel shrugged, it not being a task he particularly coveted at the best of times.

"I want my discharge papers," House said suddenly. His fingers twitched on his cane and he swallowed hard.

"I've got them here, Captain," the Colonel reassured him hastily. This man was beginning to make him feel uncomfortable. His demeanour was somewhat disturbing. The pistol he wore at his hip was also rather disconcerting. The Colonel dipped his pen into its inkwell and began scribbling on the form he had retrieved before House's entry.

"This will entitle you to collect a pension, to be drawn weekly. I suppose you know where you're headed from here, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's good to hear, stout fellow. Now here are your papers, and..." the Colonel paused, and laid a hand on House's arm as he leaned forward to take the papers. "Young man, don't spend it all on the Demon Drink, will you? There's a good fellow."

House opened his mouth immediately, as if to make a sharp remark, then seemed to reconsider. He wheeled about and headed towards the door. The Colonel observed the man's strange, thumping gait for a moment, and then hailed him as he reached the door.

"Captain House."

"Not anymore," House corrected, not turning around.

"My brother was taken by scarlet fever when we were children," the Colonel said softly. "This Wilson – was he a good fellow?"

House paused, cleared his throat, then opened the door. "How the hell should I know?" he snapped, slamming it behind him.

Three hours later, he reached the clearing, although by now the mule was flagging. Hitching the creature up to the trap again, House climbed onto the driver's bench and slapped the reins down.

He was forced to concentrate so hard on steering the trap through the trees that he didn't notice the warmth and brightness of the day until he was out of the forest and into the open country. The sun was getting high in the clear, pale blue sky now, seeping through his uniform and flooding over his face. He shed his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves.

The road ahead was white, chalky and narrow. It curved up a lush green hill, with orchards on either side. A small, brown farmhouse surrounded by wandering cows was on the horizon as House angled the mule up the gentle incline of the hill, coughing a little on the white dusty thrown up by its hooves.

At the crest of hill, he slowed the mule, finally halting it as the trap reached the very top. Below him, House saw a patchwork of farms and tiny, interconnected tracks. Small streams flowed, edged by thick green woodland, for as far as the eye could see. He picked up the reins once more and prepared to start the mule on the downward slope.

"House."

House flicked the reins. "Yeah? What?"

"I feel a lot better."

"Great. I predicted you would. Unfortunately, you were too unconscious to truly appreciate my foresight."

"I woke up earlier. Where were you?"

House looked over his shoulder. Wilson had pulled himself into a sitting position and was staring wide-eyed at the rich countryside around them.

"I went up to Camp Douglas."

"Oh," Wilson's face fell slightly. "What did they say?"

"Just what I thought. They won't take you. Said you could wipe out the whole camp. The bastards told me," House said pointedly, "that I've got to carry on playing mammy to you until there's no chance of you being contagious."

Wilson grinned, a little colour in his cheeks. "So where are we going?"

"My place, I suppose," House replied. He sighed emphatically. "I hope you know that you're a pain in the ass."

Wilson raised an eyebrow. "Gee, thanks."

"Don't mention it."

There we go. They got to Chicago in the end, heh. I hope you all approved of the ending, which was inspired by my beta's suggestions. On that note, many, many thanks to **maineac**, for being a tower of wisdom and sound advice throughout this experiment, providing me with incalculable assistance. Thanks to everyone stuck with this when it started out, even though it was strange, and everyone who has read this since. Thanks to **nightdog**, whose Annals proved that it can be done, and to everyone who has given me advice or helpful research at some point.

The line "_Agonies are one of my changes of garments; I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person_. _My hurts turn livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe," _quoted in Chapter Sixis from 'Song of Myself' by Walt Whitman. Full text can be found here: German song sung by House in Chapter Seven is 'Ich Hatte Einen Kameraden', the words of which are here: http://en. again, thanks to all. This has been great fun!


End file.
